


The Things We Keep Inside

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Brief Sheriarty, Child Abuse, Cute, Depression, Eating Disorders, Fluff, Gay, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Hospital, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3097598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen year old John Watson has been struggling with depression for years then, one night, it all gets too much. After almost ending it all, he calls Childline and gets himself checked into the Psychiatric Ward of Baker Street Hospital, where he meets Sherlock Holmes. Will they ever get out of the Psych Ward and will they still be together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Rough Night

_You are John Watson. You are John Watson and you can do this. You will do this. Damnit, you can't do this! You didn't sleep last night, you look like shit. You haven't done your homework. You failed that test. Jesus Christ, that's gonna lower your grade, shit. They'll kick you out of school. Dad'll say you haven't been trying hard enough. He'll yell. He'll get pissed. He might hurt Harry. You can't let him hurt Harry. He might hurt mum. You can't let him hurt them. Get up. Get dressed. Go to school. Work. Hand in homework. Come home. Do homework. Study. Stress out about your GCSEs. Stress out about your A levels. Stress out about not getting into the uni you want. Protect your sister. Protect your mum. Hide the alcohol from dad. Hide from dad when he finds out that you hid the alcohol. Be strong. Be the strong one. Protect your family. You are a machine, John Watson and you_ will _do this whether you like it or not._ The voice was always the same. Always saying the same thing. It was his father's voice. The boy sat up in bed. He pulled on his boxers then stood up. He pulled on his uniform then walked to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror. He brushed his teeth. He was a machine. He was a machine and his oil levels were dangerously low.

John Hamish Watson was depressed. Not your usual, "I hate everything" teenage angst kind of depressed, but properly, clinically depressed. His father could not, or would not accept that. His mother couldn't speak out against her husband. His sister didn't know. Looking at himself, he ruffled his hair, trying to un-flatten it, and rubbed his eyes. "Come on Johnny boy! You can do this." The student said to his own reflection in a tragic attempt to raise his spirits. He couldn't do this. Of course he couldn't. But, nonetheless, John trudged downstairs and smiled at his sister, he kissed her cheek, he told her he loved her and to stay strong. The poor girl was only eight, she had no idea that her big, strong brother was falling apart. Kissing his mother's cheek and telling her the same, John noticed a new bruise on her arm. He placed a cool hand over it. The pale, frail, blonde woman looked at him and smiled a weak smile; to try to convince her son that she was okay. Last to say goodbye to was his father. John never knew how to handle situations with his dad: what do you say to the man who made your's, your mother's and your little sister's lives a living hell? He nodded and said "dad" softly. His father responded with a firm "John", before returning his attention to the morning newspaper. Pulling his school bag further onto his shoulder, John left the house and began his walk to school. It was Friday. Eight periods to get through. First he had double English. Then single Maths. Then he had break, which he'd spend studying and doing homework for his next subjects - double Biology, then single Chemistry. Then lunch, which he spent with Mike Stamford and Molly Hooper. And finally, double PE. Friday was a shit day. Every day was a shit day, but Fridays were filled with boredom, exhaustion and a creeping feeling of fear that could only mean the weekend was coming. Two entire day's stuck in the house with his father. Hell. He glanced down at his watch. "Fuck." Quickening his pace to a run and mentally kicking himself for not getting out of bed fast enough, he made his way to school, taking all the shortcuts he could. When he finally arrived, he was bright red and panting and his hands shook as he opened the main school doors. He walked to his classroom and, looking in the window, saw that everyone was sitting down, staring at Mr Reynolds who looked pissed off about something: his bald head was bright red and shining like a ripe tomato. Turning on his heels quickly, he paced to the toilets, glanced at himself in the mirror and tried to calm down.  _Damnit John, you're a man! Act like one. Go into your classroom, apologise for being late and get through the damn day. You're pathetic. Just pathetic. Such a let down, John, no wonder everyone hates you!_ Always his father's voice. Every  _fucking_  time. Body shaking violently, he staggered into a cubicle and knelt before the toilet. His form heaved as he wretched over the bowl, his empty stomach sending up bile instead of food, and into the toilet it all went. Five minutes this went on for until finally he felt empty.  _Now breathe. In and out. Air going in and out of your lungs. Breathe. Well done._  He stood. He wiped his mouth on a piece of toilet paper. He was a machine. And he was going to get through this day. 

\---

Exhausted. That's the only word that could describe John's mood by the end of PE. The bell rang, he grabbed his bags and trudged out of school.  _Home now, Johnny, head up. Smile. Pretend it's all okay. Perhaps if you pretend enough, it will be. Smile as you walk through the door._ He began to guide himself through the evening via the voice in his head.  _Home. In through the front door. Kiss mum, kiss Harry. Smile at dad_. He did everything the voice told him and went up to his room.  _Homework now? No. Try to sleep. Now dad's calling you. Better go downstairs. Yelling. Just look at your feet and nod. Apologise. Be glad he only slapped you. Be glad it wasn't worse. Go back to your room. Try not to cry when Harry crawls into your bed. Hold her until she stops crying. Tell her you love her. Tell her you're okay. Ask her if she's okay. Check her arms for bruises from dad. Tell her you love her, again. Tell her over and over and over. Make her smile. Sing her a lullaby and hold her in your arms until she falls asleep. Carry her back to her room. Kiss her goodnight. Now, go back to your room and cry._ Heavy sobs seized John's body as he curled up in bed and pulled the covers over his violently shaking form. Then the thought popped into his head. He'd been having this particular thought for months but tonight it seemed real. He could do it this time. Tonight. He'd have to leave behind Harry and mum. But he could do it. Perhaps dad would get blamed and Harry and mum would be okay. Clambering out of bed, John padded to the bathroom and opened the cupboard. Sleeping pills.  _About thirty of those should send you right off to heaven, Johnny_. He thought as he took the jar to his room. Carefully, he shut the door and turned his light on and that's when he saw a leaflet that they'd been given in Primary School. Childline. He'd kept it all these years in case, one day, he managed to summon the courage to call them about his dad. Placing the leaflet beside him on the bed, he began to browse through it; abuse, poverty, depression... He frowned and unscrewed the jar of pills, putting one on his tongue, he tried to figure out the fastest way to take them all. They looked so innocent. Little white tablets, so beautiful in a way, so pure. An escape. A way out. They could make him so peaceful. That's all John wanted - peace, safety and happiness. For Harry, mum and him. His happy little pill that'd stop it all. Stop all the abuse. Stop the hatred. Stop John Watson. It'd be just like flicking a switch.  _Click_ , and he's gone forever. No more John Watson, no more suffering. Could he do more than one at once? Quickly, he put another two in his mouth, tears streaming down his face, sobbing, but he didn't swallow them. His eyes locked on that one word on the third page of the leaflet: depression. Scanning the page as he tipped more pills into his hand, through his tears he saw a phone number - Suicide Hotline. He looked at the pills in his shaking hand. He could feel the tears stinging his cheeks. His lips were sore. His eyes hurt. And there was an unbearable heaviness in his head and chest. He needed help. He needed serious help. And he needed it now. Shaking hands grabbed his mobile and he dialled the number, spitting the pills in his mouth onto the carpet as he waited for someone to pick up. "Hello... I-I... I need to talk to someone." 

After all, even machines need a little help sometimes. 

\---

The Baker Street Psychiatric Ward was perhaps the most unnerving ward in the hospital. Men, women and children, laughing hysterically, sobbing, rambling. It was terrifying to a sixteen year old boy, all alone. _How will you tell Mike? How will you tell Molly? What will you tell the school? What about mum, Harry, will they get told what you almost did? What about the schoolwork? Fuck, your GCSEs are coming up and you're in a fucking hospital? Get yourself together! Pathetic, John, you're pathetic. You should've killed yourself while you had the chance._  "John Watson!" A twenty-something year old man approached John, smiling, tearing John from his thoughts. "I'm Phil, I'm the floor's coordinator. I'm here to show you around." He spoke to John in simple sentences, as though John was stupid, or a child. The boy glanced up at the man and forced a closed-mouth smile. "Let me see, ah yes, you'll be in room two-two-two A!" He was enthusiastic about a number.  _How can you be enthusiastic about a number? It's a bloody number, for Christ's sake_. "Follow me." Grin never leaving his face, Phil led John to his room: 222A. The door was opened to reveal a simple room with only a bed and a nightstand in it. White wash walls to match the white pillow and quilt on the wooden single bed, which matched the small wooden nightstand.  _Ah, the luxuries of a mental institute._ Much _better than the hospital beds._ John dumped his school bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. "Now, John," Phil began, walking to stand in front of him, "I need your phone and any sharp objects you own. That's keys, scissors, pencil sharpeners, penknives. Everything." John frowned. 

"Why?" That was the first word he said to Phil, to anyone in the Psych Ward in fact. When waiting, he'd just sat in silence, filled out forms when he had to and watched the other patients mill around on the floor. His question didn't seem to affect Phil, who said, softly and with the same amount of calm as usual; "Because, John, some of our patients have harmed themselves in the past. We are not willing to let that happen in here." 

"No. Why do you want my phone?" 

"Oh, that's simple. You have a public phone down the hallway if you need to make calls to your family, but we strongly recommend as little contact with the outside as possible to ensure your speedy recovery." He sounded like he was advertising the hospital and, with added gusto and enthusiasm on "your speedy recovery", he seemed  _super_  happy with his job. John sighed and just handed him his rucksack. 

"Just take that." The student muttered and lay back on the bed. 

"John, we have a few more things to talk about. If you could follow me." Phil said, his tone growing slowly less enthusiastic. Slowly, John stood and followed Phil out of the room. He was led to an office, with deep red walls stacked high with bookcases, a large oak desk near one wall, and a chair behind it, and then two leather chairs facing each other on the other side of the room. A man,  _therapist,_ Johnguessed, was sat at the desk, he had short grey hair and a strangely friendly sort of face, framed by thin-rimmed glasses. Gesturing for Phil to leave and John to sit, he smiled, placed his glasses on his desk and moved to sit in one of the leather chairs. John took a seat opposite. "Hi." John muttered after a few moments of heavy silence. 

"Hello." Silence, as though the man wanted him to say something. But what should he say? Luckily, the man spoke again after a few more seconds. "I'm Doctor Lestrade." Then, again, silence. "I'll be your therapist here at Baker Street Psychiatric." 

"J-John Watson." Everything was so clinical at Baker Street. So ordered. Although slightly overwhelmed, John liked it. He liked the structure. The order. No chaos here. Nothing he couldn't control. 

"Good, I have here," he gestured to a notebook of some sort, "that you checked  _yourself_  in. No previous medical history of mental illness."

"Yeah, I-I called Childline and they recommended me a few good Psych hospitals in London, I didn't know who to call..."

"Why did you need to call someone, John?"

John looked down at his hands, rubbing them together, twisting them anxiously, before looking up again, briefly. "You're going to... Make me say it?"

"John, you need to come to terms with what you almost did. The fact that you can't accept it will not help your recovery. Saying it out loud will help."

_I'm a failure. I'm weak. I'm worthless. I'm stupid. My dad hates me._  "I-I was ready to... Uh... Kill... M-myself." Doctor Lestrade took another note, allowing the silence to create a dramatic effect where John's words rung in his ears. He'd never admitted that out loud. He never thought he'd have to. "Are you on any medication?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"What?"

"Why aren't you on any medication? You wanted to kill yourself. Sounds like depression to me." 

John nodded and swallowed thickly. He had to admit it. He had to tell someone.  _Because my dad hits me. Because he doesn't want me to get happier because then I'll stop believing that I deserve it._ "I-I had a professional therapist person analyse me and he said I had...  _Depression_  a-and he wanted to prescribe me some anti-depressants but he needed parental consent. My dad said no."

Doctor Lestrade made another note. "Your father does know that if you had committed suicide, that he could be held responsible for your actions and, with the right lawyer prosecuting him, could face jail time?" John nodded timidly and Doctor Lestrade's brow furrowed. "John, does your father abuse you?" The words were spoken softly but felt like a kick in the gut. John's mind was screaming  _yes, yes yes! He does! Lock him up! Send him away!_ but his throat closed up. He went pale and his forehead and palms began to sweat, his throat closed up - all he could do was shake his head. "Okay. John, I'm going to prescribe you some anti-depressants, you'll start taking them tomorrow. Is there anything else you need?" The boy shook his head and stood, a dizzying heaviness rising from his chest, face growing paler by the second. "You sure?"

"C-Could you keep my dad away for a while?" Doctor Lestrade nodded and John excused himself, ran back to his room and crouched over the toilet bowl, heaving and wretching, emptying his insides as tears streamed down his face. The air wouldn't come to his lungs. His brain was running in overdrive. Gasping, choking, shaking, just trying to breathe. Where had the air gone? He didn't want to be here. He just wanted to be happy. Or dead. He wanted Harry to be safe. Slumped on the cold tiles of the bathroom, he sobbed, head in hands, knees tucked up to his chest, shoulders rising and falling rapidly. That's when he heard it. Soft violin music playing elsewhere in the ward, calm, a lullaby it seemed. The drifting melody was unlike any piece John had ever heard, it was almost as if whoever was playing had composed it for him. To help him calm down. It was beautiful. Drying his eyes and resting his head back against the wall, John calmed down slowly, the music loosening the tension in his shoulders. After a few more minutes of listening to the exquisite piece, he stood and walked to his bed, curling up under the sheets, shutting his eyes and telling himself that tomorrow he'd find out who was playing that music. Tomorrow he'd thank them. Tomorrow he might make a friend in this dump to make it bearable.  _Tomorrow_. Because now he had a tomorrow. And he intended to make the most of it. Then something happened to John that hadn't happened in a long time, he fell asleep peacefully, the music lingered in his ears and he slept through the night for the first time in years. He was safe.


	2. Meeting Sherlock Holmes

"Up you get! Breakfast time!" Someone hollered from down the hall, tearing John from his peaceful, almost happy sleep. He rubbed his eyes but stayed curled up in bed. "Breakfast! Watson!" Phil snapped, sticking his head into John's room, he didn't leave until John dragged himself out of bed. "Holmes! ...Yes! ...Because it's the rules!" Holmes. That must be the name of the violinist. John sighed and got dressed into some clean clothes before trudging to the cafeteria. A plate of toast, buttered lightly was put in front of him as he sat down, alone. There was a basket of assorted jams in the middle of his table from which he picked a small pot of strawberry jam. Once he'd spread the jam on his toast, John took a moment to look around: there were four girls sat at another table together, one was blonde, all the rest brunette; two men sat together, laughing; the rest of the patients were dotted around the hall in groups of two or more. The only other person sat alone was a pale boy with a mess of curly black hair who was prodding at his plate of toast with a disinterested expression on his face. "Holmes!" Phil snapped, walking to the boy briskly before sitting beside him. "Eat... Yes... That's why you're in here... Yes... I know." The boy was surprisingly quiet.  _Really_  really quiet. Phil glanced up, gestured to John and the boy, Holmes, frowned. "John... Watson... No... Music? ...Art?" Holmes nodded slowly, stood and walked out. Mysterious. John liked it. He finished his toast quickly. Walking over to Phil, he smiled, the room went quiet. "Phil?"

"John! Hello." Phil beamed at him, placing an arm around John's shoulders. 

"Who was that?"

"Sherlock Holmes. He's in the room next door to you. Doesn't socialise much. Rarely leaves his room. Plays a lot of violin."

"Why's he in here?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, my apologies." Nodding quickly, John strode out of the cafeteria to his own room, before glancing into the room next door. 221B. That was the number. Gently, he knocked on the door and, as it was opened, smiled at Holmes, Sherlock, the boy. "Hi."

"Hello Mr. Watson."

John shook his head. "Don't call me that. That's my father."

"Apologies, John." Not really sure what else to say, John smiled again and walked to his own room, leaving Sherlock baffled in the doorway. Once inside, John found himself beginning to think about the way Sherlock spoke, deep, carefully, it seemed rehearsed; there was  _something_  different about this boy. Something that intrigued John. The violin music began to play and John grabbed a pencil and paper, scrawling out a quick note. Whilst the violin was still playing, John slid the note under the door of 221B then walked back to his own room. The violin stopped. Chuckling to himself, John lay back on his bed, glancing at the clock. Nine o'clock in the morning. Nine hours to go. 

\---

How do you pass the time in a Psychiatric Hospital? Do you sit around and rot as the clock slowly ticks on and on and on? Surely there were some interesting people in here. Standing and walking out into the hall, John sat beside the nearest other patient: a man, frail, skinny, with bags under his eyes. "Hi." 

"I tells ya'! It'll happen! Wait for it, it'll happen!" The man exclaimed suddenly, not looking at John. A blonde woman sat on the other side of John and extended a hand to him. 

"Mary." Leaning in to whisper in his ear, the woman near-purred. John blushed furiously. 

"I'm John." His eyes skipped frantically around the room, trying to look anywhere than down Mary's top, which is clearly what Mary wanted. Then his eyes fixed on Sherlock, stood down the hall, holding up a sheet of paper that said "Watch out! Sex addict. Sociopath." John made an excuse to Mary and ran down the hall to where Sherlock had been stood. He was gone.  _Fuck_. Annoyed, John trudged back to his room but, just before he entered, he saw his mother and his sister sat in the waiting area. "John!" Harry yelled and giggled as her brother sprinted to them. His mother had a black eye and a swollen lip, but Harry looked okay. Scooping his little sister up into his arms, John wiped away a tear. 

"Hey Harry." He whispered, kissing her hair over and over. "Did dad-" Harry shook her head. The boy glanced at his mother who just shook her head and smiled. "Mum... I'm so sorry."

"It's okay sweetie."

"I-It was... I'm so so so sorry." His mother just smiled again and Harry tugged at her brother's sleeve. 

"We brought clothes, all your favourite jumpers and jeans." Proud, John grinned at his sister and ran to his room, dropping her on the bed. "No TV? That sucks." She said, always so innocent, always smiling. "You suck!" John responded, jumping onto the bed beside the girl and tickling her. Squealing in delight, Harry squirmed and kicked her big brother, eyes shut as she giggled. Just a happy little girl. You'd never guess that she lived in fear. That she cried every night. 

"Nuh huh!" 

"Yeah huh!" Harry hit him and he pulled her into a tight, protective hug and, glancing at the clock, John smiled: six hours. 

\---

Once his mother and sister had left, the boy curled up in bed to the soft sounds of a violin being played next door. Sherlock Holmes. Three hours. Inside the Psych Ward, John found himself thinking less. It was strange. It's as if he'd left everything that was pulling him down outside. But even inside, there was still the heaviness of his chest. Even inside, there was nothing to lift him up, so he was still sinking, just a bit slower. Doctor Lestrade knocked on the open door and, once John had said he could come in, sat on the edge of the bed. "I have your meds. How're you doing in here? Made any friends?"

"Just one... One maybe..." He shrugged and crossed his legs on the bed, taking the little plastic cup of pills from his therapist. Lestrade stared at him until he elaborated. "Sherlock. 221B." 

The doctor's face dropped. His brow furrowed, and he leant forward. "John. Listen to me. Sherlock Holmes is dangerous."

"I-But-I-"

"Have you spoken to him yet?"

John decided not to count their thirty second conversation. "No..." 

"Good." Lestrade cleared his throat. "John, I have your best interests at heart and, trust me, I am very fond of Sherlock, I'm very close to his older brother, but he just wouldn't be... Healthy for you."

"Why?"

"Do you know why he's in here?"

"I-No..."

"Do you know how long he's been in here?"

"No."

"Do you intend to speak to him?"

"Yes."

"Don't expect a friendship. Don't expect him to be kind. He's the most shut-down person I've ever met. Doesn't let anyone near him. Doesn't  _want_  anyone near him. Borderline sociopathic."

John frowned. "I thought you weren't supposed to speak ill of your patients..."

"I'm not. And I didn't." Lestrade stood and, quickly, left the room. John sat alone in his room, quite confused for the next few minutes before eventually mustering the courage to take his pills. One at a time.

\---

Nine o'clock in the evening. Go time. John jumped out of bed, changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a cream jumper, and walked to the hall. Already sat in a chair, head dipped so his face was covered by the mass of black hair, was Sherlock. Heart racing, John sat next to the boy and smiled, although Sherlock didn't see. "Good evening, John." He spoke softly, carefully. Sherlock's sleeves were rolled up, showing faint silvery lines marking both of his forearms and John could easily guess how those had happened. 

"Hey." They fell into silence, just their breathing and the sound of someone shouting somewhere down the hall. After a few minutes, Sherlock looked up - his eyes were  _so_  beautiful, John couldn't help but notice the grey irises, with speckles of green, blue and yellow. He'd never seen eyes like them. Then there were the boy's cheekbones and jawline which were so pronounced, casting gentle shadows on his pale, angular face. John frowned at his own thoughts - he'd never noticed this sort of thing about anyone before, let alone a  _boy_.

"Last night," Sherlock began, voice low, deep, still seemingly careful, "you were crying."

"What? N-No!" 

"Yes, John, please don't lie, it won't help you in anyway."

"You sound like Doctor Lestrade."

"You were crying, John."

"And you were playing music." The blonde boy snapped, jaw set in frustration.

"Violin. Yes." Eyes drifting lazily over John's face, Sherlock smiled ever so slightly, before returning his gaze to his own hands. "Why were you crying?" This sort of question would usually seem intrusive but the was Sherlock said it made him seem innocent, naive, curious, but not intrusive.   

"None of your business." John snapped, nonetheless. "Why are you in here?"

"None of your business." They fell back into silence, neither were sure how to continue but both  _wanted_  to continue. "The piece, did you, uh, did you like it?" Sherlock eventually spluttered, words tumbling out of his mouth quickly, causing John to laugh quietly. 

"Yes, it was beautiful, brilliant, quite remarkable, extraordinary..."

"That's not what people usually say."

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off." A quick spurt of air escaped John's nose by way of surprised laughter whilst Sherlock's lips twitched at the edges, the closest to a genuine smile in years. How did John manage to make him feel so  _funny_ inside? John made him feel like he had Redbeard back... But happier, and he barely knew this boy. Watson could be a psychopath for all he knew - he couldn't allow himself to get too close. Rising to his feet slowly, Sherlock swallowed back a lump that was forming in his throat and walked away briskly, slamming the door to his room the moment he reached it. And almost immediately after sitting on his bed, his violin found it's way into his hands, the bow sitting comfortably in his fingers. One deep breath. Surprised by the other's sudden exit, John sat still, too shocked to move, for around five minutes, before trudging back to his room, all happiness that he _might_ have felt around Sherlock was gone. Replaced by hurt. Rejection. "Fucking Holmes basta-" He was cut off by violin music.  _Sherlock._  

\---

The piece being played was full of longing and pain, full of the ever pouring rain and the cold empty streets of London. Full of the towering buildings that surround the greedy ghosts of people. Full of the cars and bikes and noise and hate and war and conflict that ruin the dream of peace and full of the binding gravity of society that separates one from the stars. The floating melody surrounded and entranced John, creating an image in his mind of what the boy playing was feeling. Pain. Loss. Heartbreak. Death.  _Love._ A composition, definitely, but such an exquisite composition that John doubted that Sherlock was in any way  _ordinary._ The violin conveyed lost emotions that the musician himself could not convey. The violin cried bloody tears that Sherlock Holmes just  _could not_ cry. The violin created some sort of physical form for what Sherlock was feeling. Just fleeting emotions, but so many of them that they formed a rich tapestry of thoughts. Sherlock's hands shook, he swallowed thickly. Never had an emotion, or anything for that matter, stopped him from playing. Sherlock Holmes was in trouble. Serious trouble.


	3. Doctor John H. Watson

So Sherlock Holmes was a messed up kid, John had figured that much out before he even spoke to the boy, yet he was utterly fascinating. Over the next two days, he didn't see Sherlock at all, no-one did, but he set about gathering information on him and, by the end of the second day, he'd built a mini-profile of the teenager in the room next door.

The boy's name was Sherlock Holmes. He was seventeen, and no one knew why he was in the ward, although people assumed it was something to do with depression.

Two days and that's all John had managed to find out. And he knew it all already. He'd been around everyone in the ward, asking, but no one knew what was wrong with Sherlock, and no one seemed to want to know.

On the third day, when he went for breakfast, he saw Sherlock sat alone, just like the first time he'd ever seen him. John soon realised that he'd somehow forgotten the perfectly sculpted features of the boy's face. He'd forgotten his pale skin. He'd forgotten the way the boy's messy black hair framed his face and half-covered his stunning blue eyes. But there was something different about Sherlock this time. His hand was badly bandaged, there were dark circles under his eyes and his shoulders were even more hunched than usual, but it was something else. Something different. John couldn't place his finger on it. Sitting down, alone, the blonde boy sighed to himself and began to pick at his food. Then he heard the scrape of a chair. The sound of metal cutlery hitting a porcelain plate and quick footsteps. Sherlock had stormed out of the room. Unable to resist the urge to follow Sherlock and demand some sort of explanation for why he had just abandoned him completely, John ran after him, catching the taller boy's wrist just before he reached his room. "Sherlock-"

"Release me, John." Voice cool, calm, even, Sherlock glared at John's hand on his wrist.

"No. I-I... Why did you just storm off and disappear for days?" The shorter boy demanded, fingers still firmly gripping Sherlock's bony wrist.

"If I'm correct - which I usually am about matters of such nature as this- I'd say that's none of your business." Sherlock's tone never faltered, never shook, it was always seemingly rehearsed. There was something remarkably careful about the way he spoke, like he was trying to censor whatever he may say. Perhaps it was to protect himself?

"Well you're not right. I deserve an explanation." Grip loosening, but not letting go, John looked at the white fabric of the bandage on Sherlock's delicate hand, running the fingers of his other hand over it. The taller boy did not pull his hand away. Whilst the blonde untied the bandage carefully, Sherlock's eyes simply scanned his face, then moved to observe the care that John displayed as he tenderly ran his thumb over the scratches and bruises on Sherlock's knuckles. "You shouldn't do that." The shorter boy muttered, catching Sherlock off guard - he shouldn't do what? "You shouldn't punch the wall. It won't fix anything. And you should really sort the bruises and stuff out - put some sort of cream on it. And you bandaged it wrong." John knew about this stuff. He knew about bandages and creams and healing and looking after people. He knew how to tend to wounds and how to ensure they didn't get infected. And the bruising on Sherlock's knuckle wasn't very bad, but John needed something familiar. Even if it was tending to other people's injuries - at home, it was Harry, perhaps here it could be Sherlock. "Wait here..." John knew that the likelihood of Sherlock actually waiting for him was minuscule, but he smiled at the taller boy, nonetheless, and ran to Doctor Lestade's office. Pushing open the door, he walked inside. "Doctor-"

"John! Hello. How can I help you?" Inside the office, Doctor Lestrade was sat behind his desk, and Phil was sat in a chair opposite. They both looked extremely surprised to have been interrupted.

"My bag - where can I get it back? I need my stuff." He panted, trying to breathe calmly and regain composure.

"What do you need from it?"

"There's a little red box, a-and a book, Red Dragon. You can check that there isn't any sharp stuff in there if you want, but I need them really quite quickly." Okay, so he didn't need the book quite so urgently as the first-aid kit, but he did need something to do at night.

It took around five minutes for John to return with his stuff and he was surprised to find that Sherlock was still stood in the doorway to 221B. "Hey..." Out of breath, but grinning like a loon, the shorter boy held up the little red box. "Can I sort your hand out?" Sherlock nodded, silently, and lead John into his room. There were clothes discarded everywhere, the bed was unmade and there were little, scrunched up, balls of paper scattered around the floor. The one part of the room that was in any way neat, was a chest of drawers, the drawers were all open, but on the top of the drawers there was a beautifully buffed, perfectly polished, carefully kept violin. John walked timidly to the boy's bed and sat down, gesturing for Sherlock to sit beside him. The boy silently obliged. "Can I-?" Carefully taking Sherlock's hand and opening the red box, John smiled to himself, noting how beautiful the boy's hands were, and, since Sherlock always had his sleeves rolled up, how amazing his stunning, albeit scarred, arms were. The blonde boy took out a small pot of white cream and, gently, began to massage it into the injuries on Sherlock's knuckles. "What's that?" Sherlock asked, softly, ocean-blue eyes watching intently as John treated his hand.

"Antiseptic. It'll clean it..." Placing the lid on the cream, John got out a roll of bandage and unrolled it, stopping when it was the right sort of length to wrap around the other boy's hand a few times.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked, pointing at a small bottle in the red box, as the blonde began to wrap his knuckles up.

"It gets rid of scars faster... Some sort of oil, it's pretty good." _Tie a knot and you're done. But do you want to leave? Maybe he'll ask you to stay. Hopefully_. "Done." John already felt better - the familiarity of tending to someone triggered something inside him that he couldn't explain. Not moving his hand from on top of Sherlock's, John looked up into the boy's eyes - his pupils were blown so wide that only a thin ring of iris could be seen. Sat in silence, the two teenagers watched each other, eyes never meeting, always scanning the other's body, John's hands were still holding Sherlock's, and he watched as the taller boy's eyes fell to watch his lips. The black-haired boy gazed at John's mouth for quite a considerable amount of time, before, slowly, his eyes moved up to look into John's and he bit his lip gently, nervously. Removing both hands from under John's, Sherlock placed one on the shorter boy's waist, the other, slowly, moved to cup John's face. The blonde's breath hitched and his heart couldn't help but pound, hand instinctively moving to Sherlock's lower back. And, as the taller boy leant forwards, millions of thoughts raced through John's mind, he couldn't concentrate, he wanted this, he didn't want this, he didn't know what he wanted. Of course he wanted this. Sherlock was amazing and beautiful and he was about to kiss John, their lips were mere millimetres apart, breath hot on each other's faces, both too scared to close the gap, both pairs of eyes roaming the other's face. Do it. Go on. Man up. He clearly likes you. Do it. Machines can't kiss, be the exception to that rule. Or become just another statistic. "Hello boys! Well this is rather cosy." Lestrade said, grin evident in the way he spoke, _smug basta_ -

"Bastard." Sherlock hissed, blush consuming his features as he jumped off the bed. "You're an ass."

"I know I am, Sherly." Reaching out a hand and ruffling Sherlock's hair, smug smirk still plastered on his face.

"I can get you fired. I know people."

"Your brother would never fire me." Lestrade retorted quickly, stepping further into the room and smiling apologetically at John, who was still just sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

"Yeah, 'cause he's bumming you."

"Correction - I'm bumming him." That comment caused both John and Sherlock to cough uncomfortably, both blushing, both looking down. The blonde boy decided he'd be better off leaving the room, so stood and walked out, shooting an apologetic glance at Sherlock, who was glaring at Lestrade. "That shut you up, eh, shorty?"

"I was going to-" Sherlock began, looking at the bed, then back at Lestrade. "I really like him. He's the first person I've liked in any way at all, since Redbeard, since Mycroft and I stopped-" Cutting himself off, the boy looked down, arms hanging loosely at his sides, he looked lost. "Come here." Lestrade opened his arms and, when Sherlock walked towards him, wrapped them around the boy, holding him close. "Lockie, people are going to hurt you... Mycroft knows that. You know that, and-"

"Then why do you get to be with Myc? Won't he hurt you? I'll kill you if you hurt him."

Doctor Lestrade simply chuckled and muttered, "I care about your brother and he cares about me, we won't hurt each other. I promise, your brother won't get hurt." Sherlock shut his eyes and relaxed slowly, happy that Mycroft wouldn't get hurt, happy that Lestrade wouldn't get hurt, but, of course, he'd never admit that.

Later that night, John got a note slipped under his door. _Apologies. Greg's a dear friend of my brother. See you tomorrow. -SH_ He smiled and slid it under his pillow as he fell asleep, to the soft sounds of a violin playing in the next room. John was content. Slightly confused, but still content.


	4. Industrial Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // In this chapter, there's quite a few homophobic slurs, so if you're triggered in any way by homophobia, then please proceed with caution. Also, thanks to all the super cute people who've left comments or kudos on any of my fics, you're fab and I love you all, and don't forget to leave any criticism or whatever in the comments, I really do appreciate it. Xx //

When John got out of his bed the next morning, he found another note. Grinning, knowing he'd finally got through to the other, the boy unfolded it and read it. Sherlock's slightly messy handwriting was, in a way, kind of beautiful.  _Hello John. Tonight, eight o'clock. My room. Dress up warm. -SH_

Well it wasn't the most romantic note ever, but John hadn't expected romance from Sherlock, John hadn't even expected friendship.  _But is Sherlock even interested in you romantically? Perhaps he just wants to be friends. Why would anyone be interested in you?_ John's thoughts had been somewhat silenced by curiosity over the past few days, but he could feel them coming back. Every so often, his father's voice would haunt his dreams, or appear in his mind whenever he wasn't doing anything.  _Think. John. Think. You're going to mess this up. You always do. You're an idiot. An idiot who can't do this. You can't be in a relationship with Sherlock. You don't know what you're doing. Loser. Loner. Stupid, worthless little-_

_"_ John! Hey!" A voice pulled him out of his thoughts, Stamford's voice, John looked over to the door where his friend was stood. "You okay, buddy?" The slightly larger boy walked to John, who was sat on the bed, hands gripping the sheets tightly, knuckles white. Mike sat beside him and put an arm around his shoulders, and John rested his head on Stamford's shoulder, he didn't even think about it - it was almost instinctual. They'd known each other since they were kids and Mike was like a brother to John. 

"How did you find me?" The boy's heart was racing, he didn't want everyone at school to think he was a nut job, he didn't want them to know that he tried to kill himself. 

"We were worried about you at school. So I called your mum." Seeing that his friend was worried about something, Stamford smiled reassuringly. "Only I know, buddy."

"You don't think I'm crazy?" 

"Your dad's the fucking crazy one, dude. Whatever's going on in there," Mike pointed to John's forehead, "it's probably his fault. I think you're... brilliant." Unable to stop himself from smiling, John felt tears in his eyes, but he blinked them away. Almost immediately after he'd said it, Mike raised his hands into the air, laughing to himself. "But no homo."

"So what have I missed?" John  _had_  to change the subject, he couldn't accept Stamford's kindness, he didn't deserve it. 

Sensing John's discomfort, Stamford grinned and began to catch John up with what had been happening in the outside world. "So much, man. Molly went and got herself caught shagging this bloke in the year above, Tom, I can't remember his last name, but anyway, her dad caught her, he was so pissed off so Molly's grounded and Tom's banned from seeing her  _ever_  again and Mr. Hooper is all pissed off and he's gonna write to Tom's parents and-"

Stood in the doorway, Sherlock could feel his heart breaking slightly - he'd walked to John's room, to see if he's got the note, only to find John with someone else. Of course, Sherlock had no reason to be upset; John wasn't his possession, and John probably wasn't interested in the other boy. Then again, John probably wasn't interested in Sherlock. Returning to his own room, the boy grabbed his violin and began to play a piece that he'd memorised when he first learnt to play - just after Redbeard died. 

"God, what is that? Who the fuck's playing violin?" Mike exclaimed, face contorting - his inexplicable hatred of violin was no surprise to John. 

"Sherlock Holmes." The other boy muttered quietly, fondly. 

"Can't he tell we're trying to talk? Fucking freak-" 

"He's not a freak!"

"Why the fuck are you sticking up for him? I think saw him on the way in, dark hair, pale, lingering about your door?" John nodded at the description, heart pounding quicker and quicker, gradually growing more and more pissed off at his childhood best friend. "Looked a bit of a weirdo, if ya' ask me."

"Shut the fuck up, Stamford, no-one asked you." Mike opened his mouth, as if to respond with something witty or sarcastic, but John snarled; a vicious sound that Stamford had only heard once before. "Get the hell out." Growling and pushing his friend away, John stood up and gestured to the door. "Just go."

"Woah, okay. Chill out man." And just like that, Stamford was gone, and John knew he wasn't coming back. 

John sighed and sat down on his bed, covering his face, shoulders heaving, beginning to cry quietly: he knew he'd just fucked up his friendship with his best friend.  _Idiot. You yelled at the only person who puts up with your shit. Fucking idiot. God, now he's going to tell the others where you are. They'll laugh at you. Calling you a freak or a mental case. Or whatever. They hate you, I hate-_

Cutting himself off mid-thought when he felt a weight beside him, he swallowed -  _was Mike back? No. Too thin to be Mike_. "John." A skinny arm slipped around John's waist, pulling him carefully against the warm body of Sherlock Holmes. "Hey..." Raising his hand to cup the shorter boy's face, Sherlock used his thumb to wipe away the other's tears, rocking him gently. "It's okay... It's just me..." Then, carefully, Sherlock pulled John into a proper hug, kissing the blonde's forehead and stroking through his hair.  _Stop, Sherlock, stop yourself. Don't do this. Don't get attached. Don't let him get attached. Leave. Leave now._ Sherlock thought, but his heart overpowered his head for the first time in years and he tried to drown out his thoughts with the strange feeling that John gave him. 

"Sherlock, I-"

"I know, it's okay... Do you want to cancel this?" The taller boy suggested, still holding and rocking John gently, unsure of what he was doing, but it seemed to be working. 

"N-No. What time is it?"

"Ten to eight."

"Go get ready, then." John pulled back and forced a smile. "Go on." He said, when Sherlock didn't move. Finally, slowly, Sherlock stood and smiled, before leaving the room. "Right, Johnny, what are you wearing?" John muttered to himself, deciding to get in the shower whilst he decided. It was warm, John frowned and turned it into the coldest setting - he hadn't had a hot shower in weeks and he certainly didn't intend to today. Cold showers reminded him he was alive. They gave him chance to think.  _Jeans and a shirt. No. Too smart. Jeans and a jumper? Yes. The grey one. Okay. Just a normal pair of black shoes, that's all I've got here. Okay. Why do you care so much about this? You're straight, so it's not like you're attracted to this boy. Just two friends. Good. Get out of the shower and get dressed. Good. Clothes all on? Yep. Sort your hair. Smile. Now, go knock on Sherlock's door._ It was all fine thinking about going to knock on the other boy's door, but when John reached 221B, his body just wouldn't obey him.  _Move your arm. Move your damn fucking arm. Knock. Do it. What are you afraid of?_ "Hello, John." Sherlock's deep voice said, smirk evident as he opened the door. _But I didn't knock... How did he know? Don't think about that now. Look at him. Smile._ He was wearing black skinny jeans and a tight, dark purple shirt, with a black blazer over the top. And,  _fuck_ , he looked hot.  _Probably not straight then, eh, John? Little queer are you? Little fag? Want to touch Sherlock Holmes do you? Want to fuck the gay boy? Fucking fairy, God damned queer. Gay boy John Watson, are you?_ John went pale. His father's voice. Mocking. Taunting. His heart quickened and he swallowed. He had to get out of there.  _Run. You can't let Sherlock see you having a breakdown-_ "I said hello." The taller repeated, frowning and placing a hand lightly on the other's shoulder and John's heart rate evened out almost immediately. Then, smiling as the colour returned to John's cheeks, Sherlock offered him his hand, pale, thin, delicate fingers, inviting John to hold the almost feminine hand. 

"H-Hi." The shorter boy took his hand and followed as Sherlock lead him away from their rooms.  _Fag fag fag. Queer little prick. Holding hands with a boy, are you? I always knew you were a fucking faggot. I knew it. Such a poof._ John winced at every word his father said through his thoughts, and Sherlock noticed, squeezing the boy's hand gently, reassuringly, quickening their pace slightly. "John, are you okay?" He whispered, and John nodded, and they fell back into silence. No idea where they were going, John simply clutched Sherlock's hand and looked around as they left the ward, mentally noting their journey. They ran up three flights of stairs, round multiple corridors, past  _so many_ rooms, Sherlock always using some sort of key card to open all of the locked doors, until finally, somehow, they were up on the roof. John hadn't been outside for days and the wind ruffled his hair and the cold stung his cheeks, but he leant back against Sherlock, who wrapped his hands around the shorter boy's already cold fingers. "Come on..." Sherlock whispered, arm snaking around the blonde's waist as he lead John over to the edge of the roof. A metal railing that'd be rather easy to climb over, John noted, protected patients from the sheer drop off the side of the building. "Shut your eyes." The taller boy muttered, and John did as told.  _Trusting the fag, eh, queer?_ Leading him carefully to the railing, Sherlock held John's waist as an aid, to help John climb it. With wobbling knees, cold hands, submerged in complete darkness, John carefully placed his foot on the lowest bar of the rail and lifted his weight onto it, breath struggling to leave his lungs out of fear of falling, he moved to the next rung. "Do you trust me?" Sherlock asked, softly, hands still holding John's waist. The boy on the fence nodded and Sherlock tightened his grip on the boy's waist slightly. "Let go, open your eyes."  _Breathe in. Breathe out. You can trust him. He was there for you when you broke down. He didn't judge you. Trust him._ Straightening his body and releasing the top rung of the barrier with hishands, he leant back a little, so he wouldn't fall forwards, then opened his eyes. The view of London was truly beautiful. Little square dots of light decorated towering buildings that were submerged in the darkness of the cold winter night. The city never sleeps, John knew that, but above all the traffic, all the shouting and pain, up here on the roof, John could see what all the people who'd said that meant. An industrial beauty, all lights and geometric shapes and the occasional wail and blue and red flashing of sirens. "It's... Amazing..." John stood there for a while, balancing on the bar, letting the wind ruffle his hair, before Sherlock joined him on the bar. "Are we allowed up here?"

"Honestly?" A cheeky, mischievous grin that made his eyes glint and warmed the colour of his cheeks, spread across Sherlock's face. "No." John could tell, from one look at the boy's eyes, that he enjoyed breaking the rules. Rebelling. Not following the crowd. Being different. "But it's nice to get away. It's quiet up here. I come here to think." The taller boy hopped off the bar and back onto the roof, placing his hands on John's hips, partially to help him down, but mainly to ensure that the boy didn't fall or jump or hurt himself in any way. Once his feet were safely on the roof, John turned in Sherlock's grip to face him. "It's beautiful." He whispered, turning his head to look back down at the city. 

Eyes never leaving John's face, one hand on John's lower back, one on John's hip, Sherlock whispered, "Yeah, it is." And then John was looking at Sherlock again, and Sherlock was looking at John, and the light polluted sky that hid the stars was gone and all that was surrounding them was darkness. All John could see was Sherlock, and all Sherlock could see was John. Then Sherlock pressed his cold hand against the shorter boy's cheek and ran his thumb across his lips, his other hand finding it's way to John's lower back. "You're... Beautiful..." The violinist breathed, breath hot against the other's face as he leant forward, tilting his head slightly.  _Gay gay gay gay gay._ His father's voice was growing louder, harsher, like sirens, like an alarm in John's head, screaming homophobic slurs at him.  _Fag, poofter, queer, homo, faggot, fairy-_ "More beautiful than anything... I've ever seen." And then their lips were together and the voice was silenced by what were innocent kisses at first, but that slowly grew more desperate as time passed, John's fingers gripped the collar of the taller boy's blazer, pulling him closer, until, finally, they were forced to move apart to draw breath. The voice didn't come back. John's mind was in overdrive: confused but blissfully content, and happier than he'd been in a long time. Taking John's hand after a few moments, Sherlock moved to sit on the edge of the roof, feet dangling off the edge, arms wrapped around the lowest bar of the railing, and John sat beside him, head falling to rest on Sherlock's shoulder. "Why are you here?" The shorter boy whispered, breaking the light silence after what felt like only a few seconds. 

"I..." Sherlock shook his head. Part of him never wanted the moment to end, but he knew it would. They'd be interrupted. Something would happen. He'd get a phone call or something. The shorter boy fit so perfectly against his body, his little blonde head was the perfect height to rest on Sherlock's shoulder. The moment was so simple, yet so beautiful. Looking down at the other boy, Sherlock noticed John's eyelids begin to close - stress can really tire a person out, and Sherlock had heard the shouting coming from John's room earlier that day. He kissed his forehead and held him close as the boy fell asleep. Once John was asleep, Sherlock carried him back down the three flights of stairs, through the multiple corridors and past all the rooms, until he reached 221B. His arms and legs ached as he set John down on his bed and pulled up a chair beside him. Holding John's cold hand throughout the night, and occasionally placing another blanket over the other boy's body, Sherlock didn't sleep, he just watched. He watched as John slept. He watched as the sun rose. He just watched. 

He, too, was a machine. But a machine with feelings. Feeling that he couldn't express nor explain. Feelings for John Watson.


	5. Forbidden

“Up you get, lovebirds! Wakey wakey, rise and-“ Doctor Lestrade was interrupted by a cold, thin hand gripping his throat and pinning him back against the wall. _Sherlock_. Struggling to breathe, but not wanting to hurt the boy, Greg snarled and pushed him away fairly carefully, after all, he was just a kid, and Greg would be stronger than him for a few years yet. He’d grown used to dealing with Sherlock – the boy had been in and out of Baker Street Psych. Ward more times than Lestrade could count and, as unprofessional as it was, Greg had grown rather fond of him.

“Say another word and I’ll tear your smug little face off and cut it up into Greg-face confetti and sprinkle it all over my brother’s favourite suit, _doctor._ ” Doctor Lestrade frowned; that was uncharacteristically _violent_ for Sherlock. Obviously, Sherlock had made many threats to Lestrade over the years but they were always along the lines of “I will murder you and make it look like an accident”. Never had Sherlock been _that_ threatening, that graphic, _never_ had he been that emotional.

“May I ask a few questions?” Sulking, Sherlock did not respond, his eyes were fixed on John, still asleep, so peaceful, so beautiful. “Okay,” Greg continued, frowning to himself as he attempted to formulate a coherent question, “that’s John Watson…”

“ _Remarkable_ observation, Graham.”

“Shut up, short-arse.” The man grinned at Sherlock, who growled as his hair was ruffled. “Why is John Watson lying in your _single_ bed? Where did you sleep? Why isn’t he in his room?”

“He’s sleeping, I thought that much was obvious to even the more _simple_ minded amongst us. I didn’t sleep, I rarely sleep; you know that. And he isn’t in his room because… I…” Sherlock’s thin hand sought the back of his neck and he looked down at his feet, blushing slightly. Then, luckily for Sherlock’s emotionless façade, Doctor Lestrade was called by someone, elsewhere in the ward, and the man jogged away, grinning to himself. “I didn’t want him to be alone… I didn’t want him to have nightmares again…” The boy whispered to himself, before walking back into 221B. Almost immediately after he’d got into the room, his phone began to vibrate in his pocket – Mycroft. No doubt Lestrade had already texted Sherlock’s _nosy_ older brother with all the details of the _interesting_ sleeping arrangements of the previous night. “Hello fatty, how’s the diet?”

“Hello _little brother_ , how’s the _diet_?” Now, Mycroft could be harsh at times, but _that comment_ caused Sherlock’s heart to jump into his throat and he felt physically sick. His face went pale and he began to sweat slightly. He hated talking about his… _Eating disorder_ , as Mycroft and Lestrade usually referred to it. He hated acknowledging that it existed. It was the one thing in his life that he couldn’t control. And Mycroft rarely mentioned it. Mycroft _never_ mentioned it, in fact. Sherlock’s heart was pounding so hard that he had to sit down for a moment. “Oh, Lockie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that… I-”

“It’s quite fine, Mycroft. It’s okay.”

“My apologies-”

“Are accepted, brother dear, now get on with it.” The Holmes brothers tended to speak rather formally a lot of the time, but there was always a subtle, underlying tone of care, affection, one might go as far as to say _brotherly love._ But neither of the brothers would _ever_ admit that.

“Ah, yes, onto the subject of the call, Sherlock, Gregory has informed me of your _dalliances_ with a certain John Watson. Please cease this nonsense, you know you’ll only get hurt.” _Care._ It was always worry or care with Mycroft, all of the phone calls, always affection, hidden under all of his iciness and composure; Mycroft Holmes _loved_ his little brother.

“John’s different, Mycroft. He’s _different._ He won’t… Destabilise me. I… He’s special. He’s nearly as broken as me, I think. But he’s strong and-”

“Oh, _Sherlock,_ do you remember Redbeard?”

“Of course I do, Myc, but-”

“Just, think about it, brother mine.” And the elder Holmes brother hung up.

_God Sherlock, what have you done? Why are you suddenly so dependant on someone so… Normal? Push John away. Mycroft’s right. He’ll just leave, so leave him first. No… You couldn’t do that to John Watson. You’ve only known him for two days and yet, you would never do that to John Watson, would you?_

“Who was that?” Curious, innocent, pure. _John_.

“My brother.” Sherlock muttered, turning around to face the shorter boy, who was now sat up in bed, yawning and stretching. Half his hair was flattened, the other half messy, and one of his cheeks was red from where he’d slept on it. Unkempt, dishevelled, but still _so beautiful_.

“He sounds like an arse.”

“He is.” Drawing a deep breath in as he went over the conversation in his mind, the dark-haired boy watched as John rubbed his eyes and yawned, _again,_ then curled up on his side facing Sherlock, smiling. “How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it. And the conversation with Doctor Lestrade. Is breakfast ready?”

“Yeah, you should go eat.” The taller boy said, smiling caringly, then reaching over of ruffle the hair of the boy in his bed.

“So should you.”  
“I already ate.” John didn’t believe that for _one second_. There was just something about how quickly Sherlock had said it. It sounded like he’d practised it a thousand times. More rehearsed than the rest of his speech.

“’Lock… You need to eat.”

“What did you just call me?” Sherlock snapped.

“Uh, ‘Lock?”

“Never call me that. Sherlock. That’s my name. Not ‘Lock, or Lockie or Sherl or Sherly or _anything else._ ”

“Oh, uh, okay, sorry…” John looked down, sighing to himself – perhaps Sherlock _didn’t_ like him in _that_ way. _Of course he doesn’t like you like that. You’re disgusting. You’re stupid. You’re just a fucked up little queer and no-one loves-_ His thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock gently pressing his cold lips against John’s.

“Apologies.” The taller boy whispered against the other’s lips, a smile tugging at the corners of his own. “Brother put me in a bad mood. Go eat. I need a shower.”

“Hmm… Can’t I just stay here with you?” A slight smirk formed on John’s face and he pulled Sherlock on top of himself, the smirk growing into a grin. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat and he looked down at the shorter boy, before leaning down and beginning to trail kisses up John’s neck, along his jawline, up his chin, until finally, the two were sharing tender, caring kisses.

“You still need to eat…” Against John’s lips, the words were muffled but Sherlock’s heart wasn’t really behind what he was saying – he didn’t want John to go and eat, that would mean moving from the, frankly, _perfect_ position they were in at that precise moment in time.

“As do you.” John shot back, catching Sherlock off guard with the speed of his response. The taller boy grinned.

“Touché.”

\---

“Yes, Mycroft, John’s gone to eat… No, Sherlock still isn’t eating properly. It’s gonna take time, honey… I know… Come down and visit him sometime, yeah..? Well, are you free now..? Okay, five minutes… I won’t tell him, no.” Hanging up the phone reluctantly, Doctor Lestrade sighed to himself. He _truly_ cared about Sherlock, and he understood all of Mycroft’s worries about the boy. But as a Doctor, Lestrade was supposed to remain impartial. He just couldn’t. Not with Sherlock.

Greg’s head fell to rest on the desk and he groaned – God, he was in love with Mycroft, and Sherlock had become like a little brother to him and he cared about John and he was worried about every single one of them. It didn’t help that Sherlock and John were his patients and it certainly _did not_ help that Mycroft was practically his boss. Mycroft was practically everybody’s boss. He literally _was_ the British Government. And Greg still hadn’t told Mycroft that he loved him, because he probably didn’t feel the same. Greg was just too _stupid_ for anyone as _amazing_ as Mycroft to be interested in him. “Myc…” He whispered to himself, head still resting on the desk.

“Yes, dear?”

Nearly jumping out of his seat out of pure surprise and fear, Greg cursed at his boyfriend. “Fuckin’ hell, Myc, you’re an arse.”

“Oh, I do so _adore_ that deer-in-the-headlights look on you, Gregory, darling.”

“This is breaking and entering. I could get you arrested.”  
“No you couldn’t. And you wouldn’t.” The doctor stood and walked over to Mycroft, pulling him into a kiss by his perfectly shaped collar. Mycroft always smiled when they kissed. No matter how he was feeling. He always smiled. Every time. And Greg loved that about him – he could always lift his boyfriend’s mood with a simple kiss.

“Lockie is probably in his room.” Greg said after a few moments of tender, innocent kisses. “Do you want me to come?”

“And have you make sarcastic comments whilst I attempt a serious conversation with my _idiot_ of a brother? Probably not.”

“Aw, Mikey,” the doctor pouted, “you spoil all of my fun.”

“Apologies, my dear.”

“I’ll survive.” Grinning, Greg pulled Mycroft forward by his tie for another chaste kiss, before stepping back and straightening his boyfriend’s suit. “Don’t be too harsh on him, okay? He’s just a kid.”

“Lockie or the Watson boy?”

“Both.” Before Mycroft could respond, the doctor placed a finger on his lips. “Be careful, Myc, neither of them are stable. Do not unsettle them.”

\---

Happily lying in Sherlock’s single bed, warm bodies pressed together, John and his… _friend? Boyfriend?_ just stayed silent, the taller boy’s hands constantly playing with John’s. Every so often, John would feel Sherlock’s lips against his hair and his heart would begin to race, and in return, he’d squeeze Sherlock’s hands gently, then lift them to his lips and kiss each knuckle one by one. Neither of the boys knew much about the other but, although they’d only known each other for a day, they both already relied far too heavily on each other. “Sherlock?” John whispered, breaking the silence. When Sherlock responded with a quiet “Hm?”, the boy continued. “What are we now? I-I don’t want to sound needy or-“

“Well, well, well, isn’t this _interesting_?”

Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin, scrambling to his feet, he tried to straighten his clothes and fix his hair, whilst, simultaneously, glaring at Mycroft, who had just entered the room. “Nothing.” He snarled.

“Oh really?” The man shot John a look that chilled him to his core. “Watson. Out.” Stepping in front of John, almost protectively, Sherlock set his jaw and growled softly.

“No, John. Stay.”

Mycroft knew there was no use in arguing with his _extraordinarily stubborn_ younger brother – he had to pick his fights and making John leave the room wasn’t particularly important at that moment in time. “What was he doing in bed with you?”

“Well, we _were_ kissing, until we were so _rudely_ interrupted.” The Holmes brothers were remarkably similar in the way they spoke, John noted, always rehearsed, careful, clear, cold. But Mycroft’s speech was just a little cooler, just a little more sharp, just a little more intimidating.

“Who is he?”

“Jo-“

“John Watson.” The shorter boy said, darting around Sherlock and extending a hand for Mycroft to shake, which Mycroft simply stared at distastefully before responding cooly.

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mycroft.”

“Oh, believe me, the pleasure’s all mine.” A sly smile formed on Mycroft’s face. A smile that Sherlock knew all too well.

“Myc. No.”

“But I didn’t say anything.”

“Please, Mycroft. Don’t do this.” Sherlock pleaded, knowing what Mycroft was going to do, _fearing_ what Mycroft was going to do.

“Mr. Watson, please could you leave the room for a moment?” Glancing up at Sherlock, who nodded sadly, John walked out of the room, shutting the door gently behind him. “Do you understand why I’m doing this?” The man said softly, looking at his little brother briefly before making a quick note in his notebook. Silently, sadly, Sherlock nodded. “Okay. Sherlock, from this moment forth, I forbid you from ever engaging in romantic activity with John Watson. Gregory will be watching you and if he sees you with _that boy_ , he’s been told to call me.” Before Sherlock could protest, Mycroft turned on his heels and left the room, almost immediately turning into John’s room. “Watson. Stand.” He snapped, the tone triggering memories deep inside John that he’d _almost_ forgotten. The boy stood. “You _will not_ speak to my brother again. You _will not_ so much as look at him, or I will ensure that you will spend the rest of your sad little life in prison. Do you understand?” John, silently, nodded. Once he was sure that John wouldn't even _try_ to meet up with Sherlock, Mycroft turned around and, walking away, Mycroft lifted his phone to his ear and began speaking in a quick, hushed tone. _Perhaps your just attract this sort of person. Sherlock was the first person who ever bothered putting up with you and his brother is an asshole. You should’ve never got attached, you fucking pansy, you- No. Stop. Breathe. It’ll be okay. Sherlock’ll find a way around it. Sherlock won’t let you go. He won’t. Will he?_ John’s face was pale, he was sweating, tears were streaming down his face. Gasping, shaking, sobbing – terrified – the boy curled up in the corner of his room. This had happened before. His chest felt _so_ heavy. He felt as though he was being smothered, or choked. He didn’t know which. Maybe both. “No… _No._ Please, no…” Whispering over and over to himself, almost subconsciously, he began to rock back and forth in the cold corner. Heart pounding, lungs empty, everything around him going blurry, the sixteen year old boy clutched at the nearest piece of furniture – he needed something to bring him back to Earth. “Sherlock… Where _are_ you?” And, almost as if Sherlock had heard him, the door to 222A was slammed open and he saw a fuzzy figure sprint over to him, immediately sitting beside him and pulling him into a hug.

“I’m here, John, I’m here…” But John _couldn’t_ calm down. Everything was going wrong. He was losing it. He couldn’t do this. God, he wished he’d taken those pills. He wished he’d never called Childline. He wished he’d never checked himself into this god forsaken place. He wished he’d never met Sherlock Holmes. “John? John, _please_.” Something about Sherlock’s voice somehow managed to pull John a few inches closer to reality, and the boy’s clammy hand gripped at Sherlock’s leg, squeezing it tightly. So tightly that it hurt the taller boy. But Sherlock said nothing. He just kept whispering words of reassurance into the blonde’s ear, until, after ten, maybe fifteen minutes, John was calm. His tears stung his face and his body was exhausted. His mind was exhausted. As his eyes drifted shut, as he fell asleep, John felt himself being lifted up, carried across the room, and then lay, carefully, in bed. A blanket was pulled over the boy and he fell asleep almost immediately. “Goodnight, John.” Sherlock placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, before, sadly, walking out of the room.


	6. Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // Self harm and eating disorder mentions. Please, proceed with caution if either of these things trigger you, the self harm is briefly mentioned but the ED part is slightly more detailed. Take care. Xx.

Seven o’clock in the morning. Outside John’s window, it was a bleak, rainy day in London, and in his room it wasn’t much better. _Pathetic fallacy._ He thought – something he’d learnt in English. His mood had dropped drastically due to the events of the previous day and, after his breakdown, he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to face Sherlock. “John, breakfast.” Philip said, cheerily, poking his head through the doorway or the boy’s room briefly, before moving on to wake Sherlock. But something inside John lacked the motivation to eat. Eating was to survive, and with no reason to be alive, was therefore pointless. This had happened before. Pulling the covers up over his head, the boy curled up and shut his eyes tightly – maybe if he ignored the world, the world would ignore him and he could just die, unnoticed, alone.

An hour passed, and no-one else bothered him; anyone who even attempted to strike up a conversation was brutally ignore and soon the staff got the message that he didn’t want to be disturbed. Then Doctor Lestrade walked in. “Meds.” He explained, shaking the little plastic cup, when John stared at him blankly. “John, I-“

“Your _boyfriend,_ ” John hissed, shoulders rising and falling faster and faster as a burning anger consumed his body, “your fucking _asshole_ of a boyfriend has fucked up his brother’s life and I will never forgive him for hurting the boy I love most in this world.” Once he’d finished the sentence, John frowned – how could he love Sherlock? He didn’t. No. Of course he didn’t. He did not love him. Wincing at the pure hatred in John’s voice, but staying silent, Lestrade looked at his feet. “I don’t want any fucking meds. My brain,” John hit the side of his head with his palm, to emphasise his point, “is beyond fucked up and it’s my father’s fault and my school’s fault and your cunt of a boyfriend’s fault. I am a lost cause.”

By this point, Greg’s jaw was set firmly, his eyes steely and he looked just about ready to punch someone – _nobody_ spoke about Mycroft like that. _Deep breath in. Count to five. Separate your private life from work. Ignore anything he says about Mycroft._ “Nobody’s a lost cause, John…” Sitting beside the boy, on the edge of his bed, Greg sighed quietly. “Just because somebody stumbles, loses their way, it doesn’t mean they’re lost forever. Sometimes,” Greg’s face softened a little and he looked fondly at the boy, “sometimes we all need a little help.” When the boy had calmed a little, he sat up and took the pills from his doctor. “John, I’m not saying that recovery will be easy, it won’t be instant and drugs certainly won’t cure it alone, but if you keep fighting, I’ll be right here with you. You can, and will, get through this – for your mum, for your sister.” John nodded slowly and began to take his pills, one by one, hesitating before each as he attempted to muster the courage to take it – maybe these could make him better for now, but what about when he stopped taking them? Would he crash? What if he was on them for the rest of his life? Forcing a smile at Doctor Lestrade, apologising, then thanking him, John tried to ignore his thoughts and concentrate on something else. After a few moments of silence, Lestrade stood and left the room, shutting the door behind him quietly. “Sherlock…” The name seemed to roll off John’s tongue – he was barely aware that he’d said it and, once it registered in his mind that he’d just muttered the name of the boy he was supposed to be forgetting about, he groaned and curled up under his sheets again. _Fuck_.

\---

“Alone again, Sherlock, this is what you’re best at. No-one to hurt you, eh? No-one for you to hurt.” The dark-haired boy muttered, sat on the edge of his crappy bed, violin resting comfortably in his thin hands. Hopeless. Aimless. Lost. He’d cried for the whole night – silent sobs, tears making his cheeks hot and sticky – he hadn’t slept. Every few hours, he’d crept to John’s room to check he was okay. John had slept peacefully throughout the night. The boy’s hands were still shaking and he had dark circles under his eyes – he looked ill. Shoulders hunched over- blanket draped over him, plucking distastefully at the strings of his violin, he sighed, a hoarse, throaty sigh, and gripped his hair in frustration. He was exhausted – emotionally and physically. Never in his life had he not wanted to play music, to hear the notes that _he_ could create – violin, piano, anything. Music was his coping mechanism, and his life, and yet, there he was, and playing that _fucking_ violin was the last thing he wanted to do.

He’d gone to breakfast in the hopes of just _seeing_ John, but John didn’t turn up. So, John hadn’t eaten. He was getting worse. John- _No, Sherlock, stop worrying. He doesn’t worry about you. You aren’t together. Get. Over. Him._

“Hey, kiddo.” Doctor Lestrade said cheerily, walking into the boy’s room, without knocking. “Drugs?” He grinned and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Your boyfriend-“

“ _Your_ brother.”

“-Is an arse and he can’t move me without my consent. I’m sixteen.”

“Actually, he can - considering the fact that you’re… Mentally compromised, your healthcare is in the hands of your legal guardian, which Mycroft ensured was himself.” Lestrade said, smugly: his boyfriend really _had_ eliminated all possible loopholes – Sherlock’s care was entirely in Mycroft’s hands.

A deep growl escaped the boy’s throat and he put the violin down on the bed beside him. “I’m not mentally compromised.”

“Sherlock, you were hospitalised after not eating for god knows how long, your body stopped working. That sounds pretty compromised to me.” The calm, emotionless way that Greg delivered the statement came as a surprise to Sherlock – Greg was always the warm one. The caring one. The one who gave good hugs and who’s voice cracked when he was proud or upset or happy. Greg had never been so… Cold.

“Graham-“

“You were so small… I could’ve snapped you in half. I could see all of your ribs… Your arms and legs were like sticks, covered in… Cuts… We thought you were better. We thought you were eating. We thought you’d stopped hurting yourself…” Swalowing and looking down, Greg began to shake slightly. His voice was no longer cold – it was broken and disjointed. “It… Hurt us, Sherlock. It broke Myc… He blamed himself… For not noticing…” Over the years, Greg and Mycroft had become like parents to Sherlock, whilst their actual parents were away in America, or France, or Italy, or Spain, or Japan, or Egypt, or New Zealand. Greg had been around since Sherlock was first checked in – five years ago – and over time, he’d become more and more important to the Holmeses.

“I’m not compromised.” Sherlock repeated.

“Explain what you are then.”

“Alone.”

That caught Greg off guard – his demand for an explanation was supposed to shut the boy up. “ _What_?”

“Are you fucking blind, Gethin? Can’t you see? Didn’t you see how happy John made me? Didn’t you notice that I was getting better?” The boy’s voice grew increasingly hostile as he spoke.

“Sherl-“

“I was smiling more, you asshole. I was _eating._ John Hamish Watson was saving me and you stopped him. You took him away.” The boy hissed, voice cracking, then growing cold, emotionless.

“Sherlo-“

“You took him away and you broke me!” His voice cracked again and, looking at the doctor, eyes wide, hopeless, broken; tears welled, then fell down his face. “You _broke_ me and I can’t forgive you… John Watson could’ve been my lifeline…”

“Sh-“

“Get out! Go back to my asshole brother and tell him that I want him out of my life. Tell him he’s a bastard and I hope he chokes on his fucking cake.”

“William.” Greg snapped – he’d had enough. He’d been yelled at by John, he’d been yelled at by Sherlock. He was thoroughly pissed off, but something inside him still wanted to help the broken boy who was so close to a brother to him. The boy went silent: no-one ever called him William, not anymore. He wasn’t William anymore. “You’re going to shut up, and you’re going to listen to me, okay? Your brother loves you, and he’d doing what’s best for you. And, by extension, I care about you a great deal, so what I’m about to say does not leave this room. Mycroft Holmes is a very important man. He is a great man, and a good one. He is my boyfriend, hopefully someday my husband. And he is your brother. That being said,” Greg paused, took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock, “John Watson has been excellent for your health. I’ve noticed it, of course I have, I’m not stupid. But going against my boyfriend could get me fired, and dumped. So here’s my idea – meet John on the roof if you want to see him, there’s no cameras up there. There’s cameras in the hallways so don’t go together. There are none in the stairwell. I can be your go-between for times and stuff but I recommend you spend all of the day with him. Mycroft _will_ find out and he will find out quickly. I wouldn’t give you much more than a day.”

“Lestrade, I-“

“John has a note in the bottom of his medication telling him to meet you on the roof in,” Greg checked his watch, “five minutes, go get ready.”

“Greg-“

“It’s okay, Sherlock. It’ll all work itself out.”

“Shut up.” The boy growled, faking a pout, before looking up at Greg through his thick, long, lashes. “I want a hug.” He muttered, and before he knew it, Greg had him wrapped up in a bear-hug. Sherlock’s skinny arms wrapped around the man and he grinned.

He really did give the best hugs.

\---

 _Two minutes early. Deep breaths, Johnny._ The blonde boy bounced on the balls of his feet, hands balled up in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, glancing anxiously at the door. His heart was pounding in his chest and he was shivering visibly. It was almost like withdrawal from some sort of drug – an addiction. He’d knew the boy for only a few days and yet he needed him so badly. Sherlock was all the medication he needed. “Watson.” A cool, collected, calm voice spoke, and John span on his heels to see Sherlock, stood in black skinny jeans, a tight, deep purple shirt, and a black blazer, with his long coat over the top and a blue scarf around his neck. A slight grin spread across his face as John ran towards him. Quickly jumping at the other boy and wrapping his legs around Sherlock’s waist, John buried his face in the warmth of Sherlock’s neck. “God, you’re heavy.” Sherlock joked, placing his arms about the blonde’s waist and holding him tightly.

“Shut up…” A relieved laugh escaped John’s throat – he’d only been away from the boy for twelve hours and yet he’d missed him _so_ much. “Sherlock…” The shorter boy whispered against the other’s neck, sending a warm feeling straight to Sherlock’s heart. “Sherlock, I missed you so much…” Placing the blonde on a concrete block near the corner of the roof, shielded from the cold wind, Sherlock removed his coat and scarf and wrapped them around his… _Boyfriend?_

“I missed you too.” The younger boy whispered, then sat beside John, kissing John’s hair gently and smiling as John lay his head on his shoulder. Squeezing the other gently, Sherlock watched as John’s eyes fell shut and listened as his breathing slowed. “So much…”


	7. Boyfriend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //Argh! This is so short, sorry guys - I had a beginning and an end but no middle and I've got really bad writers block. Anyway, enjoy! xx

_Mycroft already knows. He knows. He’s on his way over. He’ll take John away._ Sherlock’s thoughts were stuck on an endless loop of fear – he couldn’t lose John, he couldn’t let Mycroft take him away.

They’d been together for two hours now, they’d moved from the roof to the stairwell, where John was still huddled in Sherlock’s coat, no longer for the heat, but because it smelled like the other boy. Everything was quiet. Everything was calm. Everything was right. “So, why’d they put you in here?” John asked, cautiously – not wanting to destroy the perfect moment they’d created. Swallowing, then looking down at the boy, Sherlock simply smiled – though it did not reach his eyes - and John knew that it was a question he’d answer in his own time. These boys did not need words. They did not need any form of communication other than looks and actions.

Every so often, Sherlock would turn his head and kiss John’s forehead – a movement that meant ‘you’re still here, I’m still here, we’re together’. And John would smile and, in return, tug on his sleeve any time he seemed to zone out or even looked a tiny bit sad for a moment, almost a reminder that he wasn’t leaving, that Sherlock was stuck with him, that it wasn’t just in either of their heads, that it was real, that this was them, that this was now. Simple gestures like these meant that the time they had spent together so far had been silence, listening to cars out in London, or other patients, stuck in the Psych. Ward. John’s head would fall to rest on Sherlock’s should every so often and Sherlock would rest his head on top. In those two hours, they grew closer and closer and with every passing second, they wanted more and more time. As the day drew on, and dragged into evening, and the stars began to fight the light pollution of the big city, the boys wanted to go back to the Ward less and less. Five hours together.

“John…” Sherlock muttered, stood, then offered a hand for the boy he cared about most in the world. “Follow.” What more could John do that oblige? The taller boy led him in silence back onto the roof, into the cold.

“Sherlock? Why are we up here?” John whispered, looking around, almost scared, as Sherlock climbed up onto the railing. “Sherlock! What are you doing?” But Sherlock ignored him until his feet were on the second-to-top rung, before turning to face John, wobbling slightly in the wind as he raised his arms in an almost triumphant manner.

“John Hamish Watson!” The boy yelled, unnecessarily loudly, eyes never once leaving John. “You are amazing and, since my brother intends to steal you away from me soon,” A childish grin spread across Sherlock’s face, and John couldn’t help but smile in return, “I think you need to… Know how I feel.”

“Sher-“

“Mr. John Hamish Watson, you are the one person in this world that I would give my life to save. You’re a little bit broken. A little bit messy. A beautiful disaster. Just like me.” He hopped forwards, onto the roof, much to John’s relief. “And believe me when I say that the moment I’m eighteen, I intend to marry you. But for now, since we may never see each other again-“

“’Lock… Don’t-“

“Since we may never see each other again, allow me to ask you this...” Lowering himself onto one knee and reaching into his pocket for a little velvet bag with two simple, plain, gold rings in that he’d persuaded Greg to go out and buy, smiled. For the Holmeses, money was not an issue, so they hadn’t taken a large chunk out of his savings, but they were high quality and beautiful, even if they were simple. He held one out to John. “John Hamish Watson, will you be my boyfriend?”

John’s heart stopped. Those were the words he’d been hoping to hear for so long – and those rings were so beautiful. But they must have been so expensive. He couldn’t say no. He didn’t even want to say no. “Yes!” Grabbing the ring and taking Sherlock’s hand, he smiled as it slid on perfectly. “My boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes.” He whispered, to himself more than to anyone else, after a few moments of admiring the ring. Sherlock slid his on, and both boys had a ring each.

“No matter how far apart life takes us, we’ll always have these, yeah?” The taller boy whispered against his boyfriend’s hair as he was hugged, so tightly he was sure John had cause some serious organ damage.

“Forever…” John’s voice was soft, not a whisper but a mutter. And Sherlock liked the way ‘forever’ sounded. _Until the very end._ Sherlock thought to himself. _Until our very end._

They moved slowly back inside, to the top of the stairwell, and sat together; knowing they only had a few minutes left, savouring every second, wishing they had longer. Time is cruel, Sherlock had heard people say that before, but only now did he understand what they meant. The twelve hours they’d spent apart had been the longest twelve hours of his life, and the five hours they’d spent together just felt like five minutes.

“Mycroft’s actually going to move you, isn’t he?” The older, but shorter, boy said, heart breaking with every word he spoke, and just the look on Sherlock’s face told him all the answers he needed.

 _Yes, and I’ll probably never see you again. And this breaks me and this will ruin me and there won’t be a day that passes where I don’t think of you._ Sherlock thought – he just couldn’t say it out loud. He didn’t want to admit it. He didn’t want to admit that their time would be over so soon.

They were out of time and they both knew it.

But neither could believe it or accept it. They refused to acknowledge that it could be ending. That _they_ could be ending.

The taller boy felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and John felt Sherlock’s body tense as he got the phone out and read the text.

John knew what it said without reading it, so did Sherlock.  

_Please say your goodbyes to John Watson. –MH_

And Sherlock’s entire world was torn apart in seven words.


	8. Out Of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //This was quite a quick chapter, I will edit it over time, probably. There might be some mistakes in layout or spellings, sorry. As usual, comments, kudos and bookmarks are appreciated xx

"Mycroft?" John asked, and Sherlock's silence told him all the answers he needed. "How long?" His boyfriend's face was pale, hands shaking, eyes open wide, focusing on a random point, somewhere in the distance, and glazing over with tears. He said nothing. Glancing over at Sherlock's phone, John read the text, heart pounding in his chest, seemingly smashing against his ribs.

"'Lock..." The shorter boy wrapped his arms around Sherlock and buried his face in his neck as Sherlock hugged back, arms wrapping tightly, protectively around John, hands gripping desperately at the boy's back. As John began to sob, Sherlock simply shook his head quickly, repeatedly, eyes squeezed tightly shut, as if trying to stop himself from crying. Then he gave up, and buried his face in his boyfriend's blonde mess of hair. John couldn't hear Sherlock crying but he could feel hot, wet tears flowing into his hair, silent tears.

"I'm so sorry." The younger boy whispered, carefully beginning to rock John back and forth, arms tightening, then loosening, then tightening every other second, like he needed John closer but didn't want to hurt him. "I shouldn't have let you get-"

"'Lock..." John whispered, and Sherlock fell back into silence, kissing John's hair occasionally, whilst John tugged his sleeve every so often.

This was them, this was now, this was real.

But it wasn't going to last. They would be separated, they'd be apart, broken up.

_Never give up, John. Don't let Mycroft take him. Don't. Fight for Sherlock. Fight for your happiness._

_Weak little queer-_

_Fight, Johnny. Hold him that little bit tighter. Kiss him that little bit more passionate. Tell him how beautiful he is that little bit more often. Because, damn, he deserves it. He deserves to get better and so do you._

_No you don't. You're a piece of shit. Just look after Sherlock, but don't be gay-_

_Don't let Mycroft take him away. Don't let him. Don't let anyone take him away. He's yours. In this moment, he's yours. That ring says he's yours. You are his and he is yours. And-_

"John?" The dark-haired boy whispered, breaking away from John and looking into his eyes. "We need to go." Sadness, pure and true, consumed Sherlock's voice, and it shook violently - they _needed_ to go, but neither wanted to.

And then Sherlock rose, and held out a hand for John. "At least now we don't have to hide it, eh?"

And John rose and took it.

\---

"Bastards!" He growled, no, screamed, as he slammed his phone down on Greg's desk, tearing the doctor from his dozing state. "Fucking disobedient _children_." A deep breath in. Deep breath out. "They had help. I'm sure of it. How else would they know to meet on the roof?" Greg looked down, swallowed quickly, before returning his eyes to Mycroft, almost unnoticeable. Almost. "You know something." The brunette commented, eyes shutting tightly as he sank into the chair opposite Greg, the desk keeping them apart. "Who was it? Phil? Phil Anderson? Or... Sally, the nurse? Who?"

"Myc... You know I love you..." Greg began, eyes falling to look at his own tightly clasped hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft shaking his head and mouthing 'no' over and over. "It was me." The words almost tumbled out of his mouth, an incomprehensible mess, but Mycroft knew what he had said. Slowly, he rose to his feet, eyes trained on the doctor on the other side of the desk.

"You... You idiot." The man hissed, voice low, dangerous. "I told you it was bad for Lockie, I told you! But you didn't fucking listen. Of course you didn't. Doctor Lestrade making his own diagnosis, ignoring those more qualified than him!" Mycroft stepped towards him. Truth be told, Greg was scared. For the first time in their relationship, Greg was terrified of Mycroft. And he didn't like it. He was shaking, hands balled into fists in his pockets, eyes shut tightly.

As he opened them, he spoke. "More qualified?" The doctor snarled, rolling his shoulders, then his neck and unclenching his fists. He would never hurt Mycroft. He knew Mycroft would never hurt him. "I'm a doctor, for Christ's sake, Mycroft, you may be a super-genius Holmes and all that but you aren't more qualified than me when it comes to treating mental illness. So the decision I made was in the interest of my patients, and not my personal life. John and Sherlock have both shown a dramatic upward surge in positivity, eating, drinking, taking their meds, and so much else since they've been together and as Sherlock's doctor, I strongly advice you keep him at Baker Street." Looking at Mycroft, Greg saw that the man had shrunk into himself, looking at his feet, shoulders hunched, upset.

And Greg felt a surge of overwhelming guilt. Quickly, tightly, lovingly, he hugged the man, burying his face in the familiar smell of Mycroft's neck. "I'm sorry, Myc... I just... They're getting better."

Hugging back desperately, as if afraid to lose him, Mycroft whispered, "but what about when they break up. Lockie will crash. He'll crash so badly." His voice was hoarse, throaty, broken. Broken. Just an older brother, looking out for his broken little brother.

\---

Hand in hand. Just the two of them against the rest of the world. Well, the ward. Sherlock's room, yes, that's where Mycroft would look first, they could face him together. "John, Mycroft isn't going to back down easily..." Sherlock muttered as John lay on his bed and gestured for Sherlock to lie beside him. Shrugging, smiling, and reaching his arms out, the shorter boy pouted. Slowly, Sherlock lay beside him on the bed, resting his head on John's shoulder and smiling as he felt warm arms around him. "He's going to take me away, whatever happens."

"I know." The blonde whispered, pressing his face into his boyfriend's hair. They had to make the most of this. They could kick and scream and fight, but Sherlock knew Mycroft would still move him. And then Sherlock heard footsteps pacing quickly down the corridor.

Mycroft.

But the boy did not move, he didn't tell John that they only had seconds, he simply buried his face in John's chest.

They were out of time.

Mycroft's fully suited form appeared at the door, with Doctor Lestrade a few steps behind him. Placing a hand on his boyfriend's shoulder, to calm him, Greg stepped forward slightly and kissed his cheek. "Are you sure about this?" A gentle nod from Mycroft told Greg that he was going through with it.

They were out of time.

"'Lock..." John whispered, kissing Sherlock's forehead, but his boyfriend didn't move. "'Lock, it'll be okay, we'll be okay, I... I'm here."

They were out of time.

"Stand." A cold, calculated order caused Sherlock's entire body to tense, and John felt him begin to shake. He was crying. Sherlock Holmes was sobbing against his boyfriend’s chest. He was just a kid.

They were out of time.

But neither moved.

Storming forward, a thoroughly pissed-off look on his face, Mycroft gripped Sherlock's wrist and pulled him to stand. The skinny boy backed away quickly, trying to pull his wrist away from his brother’s clamp-like grip. His face was tear-stained. His eyes were full of fear. Fear.

"Watson. Out." Mycroft snapped, not moving his steely glare from Sherlock's face. When John stood and wrapped his arms around his boyfriend, Mycroft hissed and stepped forwards, not releasing his brother's wrist. Brow furrowed, John placed his hand over Mycroft's, on Sherlock's arm.

"Let him go." The boy snapped. "I've seen enough abuse in my life. So let my boyfriend go." The moment the word 'abuse' left John's mouth, Mycroft's hand pulled away, leaving Sherlock crying silently, then hugging John tightly and sobbing against his neck. "It's okay, 'Lock."

John Hamish Watson was not letting him go without a fight. "Watson. I told you to leave."

"No." Careful, almost hesitant, but deadly serious, John, still holding Sherlock's hand, stepped forwards.

Sherlock noted how seemingly experienced John was at dealing with Mycroft. At protecting people, but not himself.

"I said," Mycroft snarled, stepping closer to John, "get the fuck out."

"And I said no."

It clicked it Sherlock's mind, then. John Watson had been raised surrounded by abuse, how else was he this calm in such a... Terrifying situation. He'd protected his sister, just like this, every night probably.

"Move." Mycroft was shouting now, and Greg couldn't do anything about it. Then the elder Holmes brother placed his hands on John's shoulders and shoved him backwards, sending him falling back onto the floor.

"Mycroft!" Both Greg and Sherlock yelled, in near-unison. Greg's strong hands grabbed Mycroft's shoulders, pulling him away before he hurt John any more.

And almost immediately, John was back on his feet, there was a cut on his forehead, but it didn't seem to affect him. He stood, rolled his neck, rolled his shoulders, and glared at Mycroft.

"You're a piece of shit." John hissed, through gritted teeth.

Then, for the first time since Mycroft had entered, Sherlock spoke. Calmly. Calculated. Holmesian. "Listen to me, Mycroft, you will not mess this up for me. Ask your boy toy, I'm getting better."

"Leave Gregory out of this." Mycroft responded, matching his tone, pulling free of Greg's gentle grip. "I told you not to see him."

"Since when do I take orders from you?"

"Oh, little brother, you really are in too deep."

"Am not." Sherlock snapped, stubbornly, stepping back, closer to John.

"Stop acting like a petulant child and see past your love-sick blindness. You're addicted to this boy-"

"I am still here. You know that, right?" The shorter boy interrupted, taking Sherlock's hand in his and kissing it gently.

"I'm moving you away, Lockie. This is what's right." Before Sherlock could interrupt him, Mycroft straightened his suit and glanced at Greg, almost for reassurance. "You have twenty minutes. Pack your bags and say your goodbyes."

And Mycroft left.

_They were out of time._


	9. Alone Again

The moment his brother left the room, Sherlock fell to his knees and began to sob - rough sobs seizing his frail body. He would never see John again.

Doctor Lestrade sighed quietly, then paced after his boyfriend.

And John just stood, feet rooted to the spot where he stood, staring blankly at the doorway.

_This is it. This is the end. You'll never see Sherlock Holmes again. Never again._

Slowly, John's hands rose to his ears, almost mechanically, in an attempt to block out the voice inside his head. His father.

 _Never ever again. And you'll be stuck in the Psych. Ward forever. Or you'll come home and I'll be there, waiting, belt-ready. You can't run away, Johnny_.

John's body tensed, shoulders straightening, fists clenched, as the voice gradually turned into a memory.

_He was only five at the time. He'd never seen his father this mad. His mother was stood in front of the man, whilst John and Harry were hidden behind the sofa, unbeknownst to his father. Their father was shouting about... Something, words slurred, fists clenching and unclenching, rolling his neck._

_Their mother, a thin, frail woman, was apologising over and over and over. Then her husband had raised his fist, ready to punch her in the face._

_And John had shouted "stop!"_

_The man had turned, glared at the sofa they were hidden behind, and stormed over. Harry ran._

_Harry got away._

_John was grabbed by his collar and dragged out. Then his father had hit him. First, in the jaw, then his eye, then he was thrown to the floor as his father removed his belt. After that, John had passed out, but he remembered waking up in bed, with his sister at his side. Pure, innocent Harry._

As he finally dragged himself out of his thoughts, he felt hands on his shoulders, heard someone whispering. "John, John..." Sherlock. "John..." Relief flooded Sherlock's voice as John finally began to respond; the shorter boy's shoulders relaxed, his tears began to slow, and finally, he turned to hug Sherlock tightly.

"Sorry..." Whispered John, nuzzling into his boyfriend's neck hesitantly - heart still pounding, adrenaline flooding his veins from the memory, brain still in overdrive.

He gave no explanation. And Sherlock didn't demand one.

"I have to go in two minutes." The taller boy muttered and, slowly, pulled away from John, before pressing his lips to his boyfriend's cheek. "I'll call you every day." A promise. A promise that Sherlock knew he might not be able to keep.

"You'd better."

A soft laugh escaped both of the boy's throats, and they looked at each other for a moment. Then a smile tugged at Sherlock's lips. "Remember the ring, okay?"

"How could I forget?" John whispered, taking Sherlock's hand, and pulling it to his mouth, then placing a lingering kiss on the ring and lowering it back to Sherlock's lap. His boyfriend did the same. They were running on stolen time. "We'll be okay." The shorter boy stated, when he saw his boyfriend look sad for a moment. "You'll call every day. I'll visit you when I'm a bit better."

"I can sneak out, we can meet up in London occasionally."

"We'll be okay."

"Yes." The word was hesitant, soft, delivered with a gentle nod, but not fully convincing. Neither knew if they'd be okay. And then Mycroft walked in. And he took Sherlock away. And John was alone. Again.

\---

The car ride to the London Psychiatric Centre was full of thick, suffocating silence, never broken once by either of the Holmes brothers. Both knew it was futile to argue.

All necessary forms had been filled out, so when they arrived, they went straight through and found the ward Sherlock would be staying in.

The Psychiatric Centre was the size of the entire hospital that the Psych. Ward was in, full of all sorts of different people. A more long term care plan. For people who may never get out.

It was just outside of the city, down a long road, behind huge steel gates - a huge, beautiful building, somewhat similar to the Holmes' mansion, with huge, empty grounds. Inside was a different story.

Sherlock had expected the interior to match the grand, majestic exterior. He was dissapointed to find that the inside was only slightly better than Baker Street. The rooms' walls were painted colours, there were pictures on them, there was a community-room-type-thing with a TV, a snooker table, big colourful chairs, even an xBox. All this was just in the children's section.

Mycroft carried Sherlock's bag. Sherlock sullenly trudged behind.

When they eventually reached Sherlock's room, Mycroft simply put Sherlock's bag inside, excused himself, and left, leaving Sherlock alone with Sally, the Phil of London Psychiatric.

"So, you were transferred from Baker Street?" She asked, cheerily, as Sherlock began to unpack, silently. "Against your will?" The woman enquired, frowning slightly and stepping closer.

"How did you know?"

"Well you don't look very happy to be here." Lowering herself onto his bed, Sally smiled and patted the bed beside her, which Sherlock simply stared distastefully at. "Come on, kid, you've got to stay here until you're better, so you may as well talk." Sherlock didn't respond, so Sally sighed, stood and left.

\---

 "Drugs." John hissed, slamming open the door to Doctor Lestrade's office. "I need my meds. Now." His hands were shaking, eyes watering, he was dangerously low. Lower than that night.

"I can't. My apologies." Greg said, face not changing from a gentle smile. "May I ask why you want them?"

"No." The boy spoke breathlessly, then turned, ran back to his room, and slammed the door.

_Calm. Calm down._

_Sit in the corner. No one behind you._

_Okay._

_Breathe._

_Blank out the thoughts. Sherlock's gone. You're unstable._

_Hold on. You can see him again soon._

_Soon._

_He'll call you tonight, calm yourself._

_Hold on until tonight._

The boy shook and shook, rocking back and forth, eyes closed tightly, sweat coating his brow, lungs struggling, heart pounding in his chest, everything was too much.

Too much noise in the ward.

Too much light in the room.

It smelt too much like a hospital. His mouth was dry.

It was like he'd been dropped into water: he could see everything but it was blurry and distorted, he could hear everything but it was muted and distant. Everything was in overload and he couldn't handle it.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he rose to his feet, shaking all over, legs weak, vision still blurred, and climbed into bed. He would stay there until he was calm.

\---

Dinner time at London Psychiatric, and Sherlock was lead, by a still smilling Sally, to the cafeteria. It was bigger, a lot bigger, and nicer than Baker Street, but it was louder, brighter, and the food portions were bigger.

Lowering himself into a chair, having grabbed as little food as he could get away with, the boy looked around for a moment, then lowered his head into his hands. He wouldn't eat this food. Without Greg or Phil to watch over him with those hawkish beady eyes, he was under no pressure to eat and, although there was staff who were supposed to be ensuring he eat, the cafeteria was large, and there was little to no staff.

It was all relatively relaxed, considering he was under lock and key.

A short, dark haired boy, with a cap on walked past, bumped his shoulder, knocking his drink over, then paced off. Sherlock didn't see his face.

Setting about cleaning the spilt glass of water up, Sherlock moved his plate off the tray, to find a small piece of paper with a number on it.

He looked around but he couldn't see the boy anywhere.

So, he rose to his feet and, throwing his food in the bin, he left the room, in search of the boy. But he was nowhere to be found. He could find him later.

Right now, he needed to call his boyfriend. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //As usual, comments and kudos are always appreciated and I'd really love to hear what you guys want to happen next, or what you think so far. Thanks for reading anyway. Xx


	10. A Boy And His Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //ED trigger warning, take care if you're triggered by that sort of thing. Xx

Gruelling, repetitive rings drummed in Sherlock's ear as he waited for someone to answer. When, eventually, someone picked up, the boy took a deep breath. "Hello?" He muttered, after a few moments silence, voice wobbling, much to his annoyance.

"Hello there Sherly, how's the new place?" Doctor Lestrade's deep voice made Sherlock smile a little, although he'd never admit it, he missed his old doctor already.

"Fan- _bloody_ -tastic."

"Amazing. I'll get Watson for you." And the phone went quiet, Lestrade could be heard shouting for John, a muffled response brought Greg back to the phone. "Says he's busy."

"Greg." The boy growled down the reciever. "Where is my boyfriend?"

"In his room, doesn't want to talk to anyone."

A lump formed in Sherlock's throat and he had to blink a few times in an attempt to withdraw the tears that were threatening to slip down his face. "Please, Greg..."

The desperation in the boy's voice was all the convincing Greg needed to run (well, pace) with the phone to John's room, put in on speaker phone, and tuck it under the shorter boy's pillow.

"John?" Sherlock asked, once he was sure Greg was gone. "John..." A sniffle from the crying boy was all the response he got.

Then Sherlock began to do something he hadn't done within earshot of someone since he was a little boy.

It was out of desperation and fear that he couldn't help John if he wasn't there, unless he tried something different.

He began to sing.

" _No I'm never gonna leave you darling..."_

Sherlock's voice wobbled slightly, as if unsure of himself, but he continued nonetheless, " _No I'm never gonna go regardless, everything inside of me is living in your heartbeat..."_

Not sure whether it was the singing, hearing Sherlock's voice or even the song, John began to calm down and made a mental note to ask Sherlock the name of the song when he got a chance. But at that moment in time, he focused on listening and calming down.

" _Even when all the lights are fading, even then if your hope is shaking, I'm here holding on..."_

The melody was soft and perfectly in tune, a voice that John had never expected to come out of the boy.

" _I will always be yours, forever and more, through the push and the pull..."_

Outside the door to Sherlock's room, unbeknownst to him, was another, unintended listener. Short boy, dark hair, still wearing a cap.

" _I still drown in your love, and drink 'til I'm drunk, and after all that I've done, is it ever enough?"_

On the last note, the younger boy's voice cracked and the singing faded away, breathy sobs could be heard on the other end of the phone. "John... Please... I'm here, just talk to me?"

But all John wanted to do was listen, he wanted to know Sherlock was there, to immerse himself in Sherlock's beautiful, soft voice, he didn't want to dwell on his thoughts. "Keep singing?" A soft cough, to clear his throat, before John added, "Or talking... Something?"

"What about?" Racking his thoughts to come up with something interesting to talk to John about, Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Tell me a story." The request was childish, innocent, and it made Sherlock smile lovingly.

"A story?"

A soft "mm-hm" from John, as he shut his eyes, pulling the phone closer.

"Once upon a time..." The remarkably clichéd beginning made both boys laugh softly, before Sherlock launched himself into telling his story. "There was a boy called Billie, and he found a map in his garden. Well, his dog found the map. Anyway. Billie packed his bags and ran away with Redbeard - his dog. They ran out into the city, and they got on a random boat, and they followed this map-"

It was a story of dragons, pirates, monsters, treasure, music and magic, but most of all, it was a story of a boy and his dog. It warmed John's heart completely, it calmed him down and, strangely, it made him feel as though Sherlock had shared a huge part of his life with him - even if it was entirely made up.

When the story was finished, there was one thing playing on John's mind. "What happened to Billie and Redbeard? After they found the treasure and Billie found the magic violin and Redbeard got all his new stuff?"

He heard a sad laugh on the other end of the phone, then a deep breath, then Sherlock spoke. "Redbeard found a new friend, and they went to live on a farm together. And Billie still has the violin, but the evil dragon, Rexi, he came back and Billie got put into Rexi's dungeons, and he couldn't get out, until he met this one... _Amazing_ boy, who made him feel so loved..."

Then they both fell into silence, thinking about Sherlock's story. John wondered what Rexi might represent - most other things in his boyfriend's story had been symbolic of something. _Was Rexi short for something?_ "Rexi..." The word rolled of John's tongue, without him even thinking about it. He hadn't meant to say it.

Quickly, _too_ quickly, Sherlock responded. "It's all stories, Johnny." Pain. There was definite pain in Sherlock's voice, even if he was trying to mask it. Like he was hiding something.

Something big.

"Billie doesn't exist."

That wasn't exactly a lie on Sherlock's part, Billie no longer existed. Billie died with Redbeard. But Sherlock lived on.

"We're all stories in the end, John. Stories with endings and beginnings and middles and ups and downs and love and hate. We're all just actors on one huge stage." Before John could respond, Sherlock drew a breath to continue. "But our story," he paused, smiling to himself, "it's going to be the best damn story out there."

"Our story."

\---

Outside the room, the short boy was still waiting, still listening. He could tell that Sherlock was deeply in love with the boy on the phone.

But he could fix that.

"Sebastian?" He called, with a thick, unmistakably Irish accent, as he walked away from the room, smirking. "I've found him."

\---

Untying his tie and collapsing onto his sofa, Greg groaned, then grabbed himself a bottle of beer once he was slightly more settled.

He was finally home at a decent time.

Usually, he'd get home at eleven, or twelve - Mycroft would get back at one - but tonight he was home at nine. And boy, did it feel good. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically drained: the bloody Holmes brothers could be a right pain in the arse. The constant fear of not being good enough for Mycroft, coupled with the stress about Sherlock and John really took it out of Greg.

Thank God for beer.

Once he'd got through his fourth bottle, his brain finally began to relax enough for him to sleep, curled up on the couch, still fully dressed.

A few hours later, Mycroft unlocked the door and tiptoed in, locking the door behind him. Hearing snoring in the lounge, he crept through and smiled sadly when he saw his boyfriend all crumpled on the sofa - he knew it had been a hard few days for Greg, and he was never home to help when Greg needed it most. Although Greg rarely cried, Mycroft had realised only a few weeks into their relationship that he wasn't a happy person. The drinking, Mycroft was sure, was Greg's way of dealing with his issues.

"I love you, Greggie." The man whispered, stroking his boyfriend's hair, then draping a blanket over him, sitting on the floor and staring into the glowing remains of the fire.

Worried, so _fucking_ worried about his little brother, he pulled his knees up to his chest and began to cry quietly, softly. He wanted Sherlock to beat his demons, he wanted Sherlock to get better, to be happy. But then there was the added complication of John, and the fact that Sherlock's happiness was dependant on him. And Mycroft was barely at home because of work issues and Greg was going to leave him and _oh god_ he was falling apart. Soft, quiet crying slowly grew into louder sobs, which woke Greg. "

Myc?" The man whispered, rubbing his eyes and searching the room for his boyfriend. Once he'd located the other man, Greg got up and sat beside him, pulling the blanket over the both of them. "God, honey, is it Lockie?" And Mycroft nodded, and began to cry on Greg's shoulder, whilst Greg just held him, rocking him back and forth, and telling him it'd be okay. "And work?" Again, Mycroft nodded - Greg always seemed to know what was wrong, he always knew whether it was work or Sherlock or their parents or money (which it was at one point, when they were younger) and Mycroft loved Greg so much for that. "You have me, okay? And I'm not leaving any time soon."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

\---

It was only at nine, when Sally walked in and quietly told Sherlock it was lights out, that the boys said their goodbyes and reluctantly hung up. Then Sherlock, phone held close to his heart, curled up and tried to fall asleep.

But his thoughts were plagued by doubt, fear and regret - had he told John too much? Would he figure out what Rexi was symbolic of?

Hopefully not.

He knew John would never look at him the same way if he knew. Almost telling John had been his way of asking for help. He could feel it all coming back, all the thoughts, the doubts, the hatred.

Rising to his feet, and walking to the full-length mirror by his wardrobe, Sherlock sighed as he let his baggy sweatpants fall from his hips and his loose shirt slip off his shoulder, before pulling it over his head completely. Immediately, bony fingers began tugging at the flesh of his stomach, his thighs, his chest. He _hated_ it. He wanted his bones back, they were sinking back into his fat. He wanted to be able to see his ribs, his hips, his collar bones. He wanted skinny legs and skinny arms. Why couldn't anyone see that that was how he was happy? He just wanted to be thin.

In his mind he began to plan his route back to his ideal size - at least three twelve-hour fasts each week, one twenty-four-hour one. No carbs after six. No food after seven. Ask the canteen if they serve green tea. At least three litres of ice water each day. Chewing gum. Excersise - cardio, abs and legs.

It'd take a lot of effort. But it would be worth it, he could do it. He'd done it before. _Never give up._ He told himself. _This is what you want. This is what you need_.

A smirk crept across Sherlock's face at the thought of himself getting back to that perfect weight and he clambered back into bed.

Soon.

And John would never have to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //Hope you liked it! Again, kudos and comments and bookmarks are always appreciated.


	11. Dirty

It was a Monday.

Usually on a Monday, Stamford would call John at eight, and meet him in school by half past. Not today. His best friend was still in Baker Street and the last time they spoke, John had screamed at him to get out. Mike didn't even know if John was alive. He hoped he was.

Trudging from his bus stop, Stamford turned his music up louder as he was hit by the wall of noise that indicated he was in the unbearable hellhole called 'school'. But he didn't have it as bad as John. He would repeat that to himself the whole day, and he promised himself that he'd visit his best friend that night.

\---

"Grub's up!" Sally said, with a grin much like Phil's plastered on her face, as she stuck her head around Sherlock's bedroom door. "Canteen do serve green tea. Limited to one cup a day, with a meal." Then she was gone.

The boy groaned - so no fasts and green tea on the same day. Unless he could hide the food. It sucked at London Psychiatric but at least it wasn't as bad as the Psych. Ward. I

f you're eating today, cooed the little voice in the back of his head, then get down and do twenty burpees. Keep your metabolism up. Twenty burpees, twenty press-ups, fifty sit-ups, fifty bicycle crunches. Squats, go on a run later, and repeat before bed. Without John around, the boy really didn't have the strength, nor the will, to resist.

After five burpees, he was out of breath - he was out of shape. Even as his muscles shook, Sherlock continued through the workout, arms wobbling with each press-up, abs burning with each sit-up, and completed it. Collapsed on the floor, the boy tried to regain his breath and wiped the thin sheen of sweat that was coating his forehead.

No pain, no gain. And there was certainly a fuck-load of pain.

\---

Truth was, it hurt Greg to see John like this and to know he could have prevented it. It hurt to know that Sherlock, somewhere, wasn't getting the right care and treatment and that he was probably slipping back. It hurt that his stubborn fucker of a boyfriend wouldn't let him visit his ex-patient. But he knew Mycroft was trying his hardest. Greg just wished Mycroft would understand that he was the doctor, and that Mycroft had no medical experience whatsoever. In his mind, he called Mycroft a fucker or a prick a lot, but he didn't mean it. He was deeply in love with Mycroft Holmes and he knew that for a fact. Sighing quietly, the doctor picked up his phone and looked up the number for London Psychiatric, where he knew Sherlock had been moved to, and phoned them.

"Hello, this is Doctor Gregory Lestrade, I've recently had a patient transferred to you, a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I'd like to request visiting rights every other day, to aid his recovery, and ensure he's getting the correct treatment... Yes, I'd like to begin today - half an hour's time? Brilliant. I'm on my way... Yes... Thank-you so much, that would be wonderful. Goodbye." If there was one upside to dating Mycroft Holmes, other than the obvious, it was that Greg could very easily mimic the man's speaking patterns in order to seem more professional and to be more persuasive. Quickly, he grabbed his jacket and told the receptionist that he was leaving, before running outside and jumping into a taxi. "London Psychiatric." He commanded and, reclining in his seat, sighed. All he needed was to prove that Sherlock was getting worse under the care of London Psychiatric, so he could request to have him moved back.

\---

"Mr. Holmes?" A friendly nurse stuck her head around the door to Sherlock's room and frowned as she saw him lying on the floor, but nonetheless continued.

"Doctor Lestrade is here to see you. Shall I send him in?"

Sitting up, and smiling slightly at the mention of Greg, Sherlock nodded and, moments later, the the boy's doctor walked in.

"Hey there kiddo." Before Sherlock could stop himself, he jumped up, sprinted over to Greg and wrapped him in a tight hug. "Greg..." The boy whispered softly as his doctor, no, his friend, enveloped him in his warm arms. "Is John okay?"

"John was better after you spoke to him." The man reassured, rubbing Sherlock's back slowly; he could feel the boys spine protruding slightly more than usual. He could feel the gentle ridges of the boy's ribs, more prominent than before. "You're thinner." Sherlock had barely changed, he hadn't lost much weight, he hadn't done enough to change his body noticeably, yet Greg still knew. Greg knew the boy so well that he could notice even the slightest change. "Is it back?" Doctor Lestrade whispered, eyes shutting, brow furrowing, breaths shaking.

And Sherlock merely nodded - he knew he couldn't lie to Greg and get away with it.

"I'm moving you back, just hang in there, Lockie. Just a few more days, I'll get you back to Baker Street."

"How? Mycroft will never have me moved."

"Leave that to me." And the man said no more.

\---

Back at John's house, his mother was getting the shit John usually got - she was alone, locked in the house, waiting for her tormentor to return.

She couldn't leave to see her son, she couldn't tell her daughter that she was beautiful, she couldn't do anything until her husband returned. Her hands were cold, shaking, breaths shallow as she washed herself, not looking down, physically unable to look at what the man she used to love had done to her. Her own baby boy was in hospital - he was alone, sick, and he needed his mother and she couldn't go to him.

Maternal instinct was screaming that she needed to get out, somehow, any way possible, and tell John she loved him but the deeply rooted survival instinct in her told her to keep her head down, just stay put. Surely her husband couldn't keep her locked away for too long.

\---

Mind racing, heart pounding, John hung up the phone - his mother wasn't picking up. His sister was supposed to be in school but her phone was off, so he'd called the principal who told him that Harry hadn't been into school for two days.

He needed no more than that.

John knew where his family was; locked up, beaten, scared, cold, hungry. Under the stairs, in the basement, in the attic. Anywhere his father could easily tie them up. The boy knew he had to face his fear - he should call his dad or tell Doctor Lestrade or call the police, but he just couldn’t.

He was terrified. Truly, sickeningly terrified. And he felt guilty and sick through and through.

He should have taken the beatings. He should be the one tied up. It was times like this, more than any, that John truly needed Sherlock. He needed his partner, his boyfriend, he needed a friend, a lover, a companion. Someone to help clear his head, to tell him what he needed to do. But Sherlock couldn't call him until that night. So he'd have to survive until then.

_Think , Johnny, think. Where did father lock mum up usually? Under the stairs. Okay, so that leaves the attic and the basement for where Harry is. He'll have chosen the basement because it's colder, the floor's stone, the walls are stone. It'd hurt more. Yes, the basement. There are two windows in the basement, both tiny. Harry could climb through. Harry would be too scared. She's only twelve. _

John sighed and lay back on his bed, zoning out until he heard shouting from the other end of the ward. He heard his name. Jumping to his feet, the boy sprinted down the hall to see...

His sister, dressed in her school skirt and shirt - the white of the shirt blood-stained from a gash in her wrist - stood, arms hanging loosely at her sides, dark dried blood on her face, hair soaking wet and looking thoroughly helpless. Lost. The angle the cut in her arm was at and the depth indicated to John that it wasn't self-inflicted, but he'd have to ask her later to be sure.

The girl was pale, thin, she looked weak, but, regardless, she ran to her big brother and found comfort in his tight embrace. John kissed her hair gently, lovingly, not caring that his clothes would be blood-stained, and then, after a few moments and a quick explanation to Phil, he lead her into his room, where he set about getting his first aid kit.

"What happened, Harry?" The boy whispered as he carefully wiped a warm, wet flannel over the gash, to clean it and assess how deep it was.

"Basement... F-father..." Harriet's voice shook, it was weak, nearly inaudible, but John understood what she meant. "Smashed window with my hand..." She continued, showing John her bloodied knuckles, "Reached through, glass cut me. Got out... It was raining..." A rough shiver seized her body and John knew he had to get her in the shower to warm her up.

"Harry, can I help you shower if you keep your underwear on?" The girl simply nodded and allowed her brother to lead her to his shower. Once he'd washed her cuts, bruises, and all the blood off her skin and in her hair, he wrapped the biggest towel he could around her and kissed her forehead, before leading her to sit in front of his radiator.

John grabbed his first aid box and began bandaging, tightly, the gash on her wrist (the wound wasn't deep enough to necessitate stitches). Then he began to dry her roughly cut blonde hair with another towel, all the time keeping a track of her pulse, he temperature, how she looked. "Get dressed, get warm." Stated the boy, standing up and tossing her his smallest jumper and a pair of his sweatpants. "I'm going to arrange for you to stay here with me."

"Johnny, you can't!" Harriet began to protest.

"I have to, Harry, this is a hospital, you need to recover your strength, and you'll be safe in here. I can't lose you."

With that, John kissed her forehead and left the room. He had to protect his little sister, he had to tell Doctor Lestrade about his father. The second he left the room, he bumped into Doctor Lestrade.

"Hello John." His doctor muttered, voice rough. Looking up at the man, John noticed that he had bags under his eyes - which looked remarkably sad - and his tie was loose. The man seemed tired, worn out, but there was still care in his words, kindness in his actions.

"Is Harriet okay?" He'd obviously been informed of Harry's arrival by Phil or one of the nurses, he glanced over at the girl, lifting his hand and waving gently. "I'll get a bed moved into your room for her." John nodded and smiled gratefully at his doctor. 

"Has Sherlock called?"

"I went to see him just now."

"How is he?"

 

"He's okay. He needs to see you. I've got you some time, now, to see him. I'll take you to London Psychiatric, your sister is..." Greg glanced over John's shoulder, "asleep."

And John nodded.

\---

Once Greg had left, Sherlock dropped back onto his bed, groaning quietly to himself - he wanted to get better for Greg, but he wanted to be thin. He wanted control over something in his life.

Too complicated.

And then he felt his phone buzz in his pocket (patients weren't supposed to have phones but Mycroft got him special permission).

It was a text. Short, simple, intriguing.

_Welcome to London Psychiatric, Sherlock Holmes. I very much look forward to meeting you in person. Come to my room. Room 53. I'd love to talk. -Jim Moriarty_

For a moment, Sherlock was confused, unsure about who this 'Jim Moriarty' was. But he didn't care, as the curiosity outgrew any sense of sensibility. He may as well go look. Anything to ease his boredom.

As he ran upstairs - always run where you can, the little voice cooed - and he found short boy, who looked around sixteen, sat on the bed, dark hair ruffled, eyes eagerly darting to and from the door. Was this Jim Moriarty? Sherlock knocked. The boy's head shot up, earphones being tugged out immediately as his lips curled into a thin, sly smirk.

"Hullo." His voice was surprisingly soft, a definite Irish accent coating each word. He seemed gentle. Safe. Yet there was something about him.

"You texted me." Stated Sherlock, unsure of what else to say other than "who the fuck are you?"

"You got the text."

"Not difficult to receive a text."

"Of course not, wouldn't want to scare you away on the second day, would I?"

The conversation was quick, smooth, both boy's answering almost instantly, a battle of wits.

"Scare me away? Unlikely."

"But not impossible."

"Improbable is the word I'd use."

"But still entirely possible."

"What do you want?"

"Oh, now that is a secret, my dear Mr. Holmes."

"How did you get my number?"

"Hacked your brother's phone."

"Smart."

"That doesn't even begin to cover it."

Neither boy's speech faltered or hesitated, neither stepped away, in fact, with each answer, both boys stepped closer to each other.

Until they were face to face.

And Sherlock could feel Jim's breath on his face.

And he could feel Jim's eyes on his lips.

And he could see every detail of Jim's face.

And he loved his boyfriend but right here, right now, he wanted-

And Jim's lips were against his own.

The kiss was not gentle, or tender, like when he kissed John, it was raw, rough, borderline painful, and Sherlock felt himself pushed back against the wall by the smaller boy.

Jim's hands were on his chest and his neck and his cheeks and his sides and his shoulders and his lips were so cold and each touch chilled Sherlock to the core and it was such a moreish feeling and he couldn't help but pull Jim closer.

It was addictive in a way Sherlock didn't quite understand.

He didn't dream of lazy Sundays cuddling Jim in bed, like he did with John. He didn't want quiet whispers in the night from anyone other than John. With Jim, he wanted nothing more than this moment. The tingling in his gut as the boy took what he wanted, whilst he could do little more than try to get the occasional kiss in, that was what he dreamt of with Jim.

It was chemistry, not biology. He wanted it then. But he'd never want it again. Hands finding their way into Jim's hair, Sherlock tried, half-heartedly, to regain some form of control over the kiss. The sound that he drew from Jim's throat was delicious. A half-groan, half-whimper filled Sherlock's ears, and the other boy tilted his head back, pushing it back into Sherlock's hands, near-begging for him to tug his hair again.

Breathing heavily, blood pooling in his groin, Jim ran his hands down Sherlock's body, grazing briefly over his crotch. And Sherlock's hands tightened in his hair, tearing another reluctantly appreciative noise of pure pleasure from Jim's throat.

And then Jim's hand was at the button of Sherlock's jeans, opening it and tugging them down as he dropped to his knees. Whilst Sherlock's hands twisted and released, then twisted his hair over and over again, the Irish boy did not hesitate to slip Sherlock's boxers from his hips and lick slowly from the base to the tip of the boy's length.

This was wrong.

Sherlock had to get out of there, but oh god, Jim took him straight into that eager mouth and everything was white.

This was wrong.

But he tugged at Jim's hair, pulling it harder and harder as he was slowly blinded by ecstasy, and Jim rewarded him with more pleasure.

This was wrong.

But Sherlock couldn't care less by this point, everything in his mind was muted, blocked out by the stimulation he was receiving from the clever, hot, witty boy he'd just met. But the boy wasn't John. And as he reached his final few moments, the boy pulled off and the stimulation was gone. He was throbbing, and his hands instinctively reached down to finish himself off, but Jim denied him that release. Catching Sherlock's gaze and simply smirking, Jim placed a hand at the base of Sherlock's sex and licked roughly over the head. In that moment, Sherlock knew that Jim Moriarty wouldn't play nice. So he did what any desperate person would do in his situation, he tilted his head back and groaned, a low, thoroughly desperate, needy sound, knowing what it would do to Jim, knowing how it would torture him and send a rush of blood to the Irish boy's crotch. It should be John.

Then his mouth was around Sherlock again, and moving faster than ever, sucking constantly, gripping his hips so tightly Sherlock was sure it'd bruise, bringing Sherlock crashing over the edge. The taller boy spilt himself, without warning, down Jim's throat, with a cry so broken, yet so complete and so thoroughly pleasured that it couldn't be mistaken for anything other than what it was - the best orgasm of Sherlock's life.

That was so wrong.

Panting, eyes shut tightly, Sherlock pulled his jeans back on and, without a second glance at Jim, ran out.

"Fuck." He felt so guilty. As he finally reached his room, Sherlock locked the door and collapsed onto his bed, sobbing. "John..." The boy whispered. Once he turned his phone on, after a few more moments of gentle crying, he saw all the missed calls, all the unanswered texts.

_How could you do that to John? -Greg_

_He fucking saw you and that boy._

_How could you betray him like that? -Greg_

_YOU'RE FUCKING SUPPOSED TO BE IN LOVE WITH HIM._

_HE CAME TO VISIT YOU._

_FUCKING ANSWER YOUR PHONE HE'S LOCKED HIMSELF IN HIS ROOM._

_How could you fucking do this to him?_

_You're always preaching about not trusting anyone. How can he trust you?_

_You'll be lucky if he ever takes you back_.

And Sherlock ran, sneaking out of the Psychiatric Hospital, and down the lane.

He just ran.

Until his legs hurt and his lungs burnt, the boy ran.

Until his mind was quiet and calm and he couldn't feel Jim's lips on him any longer, he ran.

Until he reached Baker Street.

Then his legs finally gave way and the tears he'd been trying to stop streamed down his face and he looked up at the hospital and suddenly he felt like he had that first time he'd ever come to Baker Street.

Broken.

Dirty.

Helpless.


	12. Feels Like Family

There were tears streaming from John's eyes, he was curled up in the corner of his room. Harry was asleep. What he'd seen was burned, white hot, seared into his mind and he felt sick to his core, but he couldn't put it out of his mind. 

"John..." Greg said in an undertone through the door, trying not to wake Harry. "I could just walk in."

"But you won't."

"Sherlock's getting bad again."

"He seemed to be enjoying himself with the short boy."

"John, come out for a moment."

So, reluctantly, John stood, sighed, and stepped out of the door, into the corridor.

At the end of the hallway, there was a boy. Baggy clothes, soaking wet curls, mud covering his body. Sherlock. The boy was shaking, crying, cold, but the moment he saw John, sadness and guilt flooded his face. "John, I'm sorry." He whispered.

"No." John snarled. "You don't get to be sorry. That's not fair. That's not how this goes. Not today. You don't get forgiven, you don't get a clean conscience. You have to live with what you've done. You have to live knowing that I loved you and you broke my heart."

"John-"

"My baby sister is in there," he thrust his fist in the general direction of his room, pacing closer to Sherlock until they were mere millimeters away from each other, "hurt, cold, tired, hungry. And I needed an escape. I needed you. And I got to your Psych. Ward, and that boy was blowing you." Chest rising and falling rapidly, John tried to keep calm, to stay at a safe distance from Sherlock, but they were so close, and the way Sherlock's eyes were so full of pain made John want to fix it all. He always wanted to fix everything. And so he gently pressed his lips against Sherlock's and he could taste blood and sweat and something fundamentally Sherlock. It was so gentle that all of John's anger dissolved into Sherlock's mouth. And there was nothing in that moment other than them. In that moment, there were just two boys who needed each other, but didn't want to need each other. In that moment there was no love and so much love at the same time. But there was no forgiveness. No "I understand why you did what you did". No "it's okay, don't do it again".

In fact, Sherlock could sense a gentle, nudging resentment from John, but he understood why. He deserved it.

"Shut up." John snarled as Sherlock tried to apologise, to question what they were doing. "Doctor Lestrade will get you a room. You'll stay the night. Then you'll go back to London Psychiatric. Alone. Your boy-toy will be moved away. You'll never see me again. You'll move on." As Sherlock tried to speak again, John pushed him against the wall. "And you'll regret ever letting that little cunt suck you off."

Then all the love left the interaction and John slapped Sherlock with all his strength. "How could you fucking do that to me?"

"I-"

Another slap.

"You fucking bastard, how could you even think I'd forgive you?"

Another slap, and fear grew in Sherlock's eyes. And John saw it and he ignored it.

As he raised his arm to slap the boy again, a cold hand wrapped tightly around his wrist. The boy turned and saw none other than Mycroft Holmes. Doctor Lestrade stepped in beside his boyfriend, shaking his head gently at him, then pulling John into a hug. Mycroft released his grip slowly.

"Oh God..." John whispered. "I'm becoming my father..."

"Sherlock, leave." Commanded Mycroft coldly. And Sherlock did, dodging into John's room and noticing the girl lay in the bed. He knew immediately who it was. He knew immediately what had happened to her.

After a few minutes of consoling John, Greg nodded to Mycroft and left, leaving the two together, alone.

"Mr. Watson-"

"John... Call me John."

"John, please understand that everything I do is for my younger brother, in order to protect him from himself - he is prone to getting himself into rather... Sticky situations. And he is a rather petulant child, he always was, unfortunately. Admittedly, though, to my overwhelming confusion he's fallen for you and... I intend to do whatever you want me to."

"What?" John spluttered - from what he could tell, Mycroft never took orders from anybody.

"You heard me." Mycroft sounded as though he was in pain due to relinquishing all power and handing it over to a child.

"Okay." After a pause, John sighed, then began to list what he wanted. "I want my sister to stay with me for a while, then I want her and my mum to be moved to a safehouse. Your precious baby brother cheated on me, I want him moved back here, I want to get back together with him, I want to forgive him. But I want him to feel my pain."

"How do you intend to make him feel that?"

"I have a plan." John muttered, a smirk plastered on his face, only partially masking the sadness he'd been trying so hard to hide.

"John, I need to show you something." Standing up, Mycroft gestured for John to follow him, and he began to walk down and out of the Psych. Ward. Once they were outside, Mycroft opened the door to a black Jaguar and gestured for John to get in. Mycroft rarely used words where he could simply gesture. As the car pulled away, there was a heavy silence pushing down on John's shoulders.

"Where are we-"

"Just wait."

"Mycroft, you don't have to be nice to me. I know you hate me."

"That's not true."

"No?"

"When we were children, mummy would be out at work a lot, and father spent all his time in the garden or on work trips abroad. And... Sherlock was always with his dog, or with father in the garden. It all started going... Wrong when this boy started following Sherlock home, taunting him, hurting him, calling him... Fat, stupid, swearing at him." The man swallowed, to prevent his voice cracking, to keep his emotions away. "Sherlock got involved in drugs, he stopped eating so much, he went on runs and tried self-defense so he could protect himself. I brought him to Baker Street after a few years. Then we met Gregory and I fell in love with this man who treated Sherlock so well. He treated my little brother like he was a human. He put up with Sherlock's rudeness and relentless sarcastic comments and he got through to the little boy I used to know. I needed Sherlock to be happy, but I wanted Gregory for myself as well. I was selfish and everything got confused... I moved Sherlock away because I thought that with you he might get confused like me... That he might get worse again because of what he was feeling. He loves you like like he loved Redbeard. He loves you more."

And then Mycroft's cold, calm exterior broke and his face crumpled.

"I just want him to be okay." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I was only sixteen when I nearly lost my little brother. I had to keep it from mummy and father and I had to carry the burden on my own... I can't do it, John, I can't do it anymore."

John didn't know what to do, and obviously neither did Mycroft - he'd clearly not meant to reveal so much. So they fell into silence, and when the car pulled up outside a beautiful mansion, Mycroft got out and opened John's door and lead him, in silence, inside the house. Instinctively, John used his thumb to turn the ring that was still on his finger from before Sherlock left for London Psych. The ring he'd almost forgot he was wearing.

"This is where we used to live." The man muttered, and lead John up to a room full of science equipment and pencils and paper and notebooks and workbooks and printed essays and, on the wall, a dog collar and lead and, on the floor by the door, a dog bowl.

"Redbeard..." John whispered to himself, remembering Sherlock's story as he picked up one of the notebooks.

"His dog. We had to get it - him - put down."

But John was more interested in what he was holding in his hands. In the notebook were sketches - of a dog (he assumed it was Redbeard too), of a lake, of a boy, of a forest, of a pirate and a dog and treasure and a dragon. They were good sketches, detailed, precise.

"This was where I found him after he overdosed the first time." Mycroft whispered, voice rough, hoarse, weak, as he gestured to the bed in the corner, covered in books. "This is where he kept his drugs." The man reached under the bed and pulled out a ring binder, full of empty plastic wallets. "Remember this, John. He'll use it again if he ever relapses."

"Okay." John nodded.

And then he realised why Mycroft brought him here. He wanted to show John who Sherlock was before everything went wrong, he wanted to show John who Sherlock was whilst everything was going wrong, he wanted to show John how to keep an eye on Sherlock and look after him. He was passing on the responsibility. Sharing the load.

Mycroft Holmes trusted him.

\---

"Hello." Her voice was innocent, soft, curious, and Sherlock turned to look at her.

"Hello."

"Are you one of John's friends?" The girl asked, as Sherlock put down John's book, which he'd been reading.

"Indeed."

"What's your name?" She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed  - they weren't long enough to touch the floor so they just hung there.

"Sherlock."

"Harry."

Sherlock nodded and smiled, before stepping forward to take a closer look at the girl's injuries. "Does it hurt?" He asked softly, cold fingers ghosting over her black eye.

"A bit. But it's okay now."

"Was it your father?"

The girl was silent, but she nodded slightly as helplessness filled her eyes.

"Okay." He paused. "Do you want to do some drawing?"

"Yeah."

\---

When John returned to Baker Street something had changed inside him - he no longer hated Sherlock for what he did, he no longer hated Mycroft either. And the second Mycroft saw Greg, he ran into the doctor's arms and buried his face in the crook of his neck.

"I love you, Greggie."

"I love you too, Myc."

They fell silent and listened for the impending argument that would ensue.

As John walked into his room and saw Sherlock and Harry sat together, on the same bed, smiling, laughing, drawing, his mild upset that he still harboured for the other boy was replaced by an overwhelming feeling of pride and love. Sherlock looked up, blue eyes gleaming, and smiled, before gesturing for John to come and sit with them.

"John!" Harry exclaimed when she looked up, about a minute later, when she felt the bed sink slightly as John sat on it. "Sherlock drew you in his sketchbook, look!" Before Sherlock could snatch his sketchbook away from the little girl, she handed it to John.

The picture was detailed, but rough, it had been sketched from memory, of the time when they sat on the stairs. A huge smile grew on the boy's face and he pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. He was still so in love with this boy who broke his heart. Sherlock sighed against his neck, then kissed it quickly before pulling away, a devilish grin on his face. John cursed him jokingly under his breath and Harry rolled her eyes.

"So how's school?" John asked.

"She likes a girl, Johnny. She loooves a girl." Sherlock taunted and Harry punched him and pouted, and Sherlock hugged her loosely and kissed her hair.

John couldn't help but laugh at how close they'd become so quickly, and how happy they both seemed. He could tell Harry was watching as John lifted his hand to stroke over the damage he'd left on his boyfriend's face. He could tell Harry was watching when he kissed the other boy's cheek softly, trying to soothe the pain that he inevitably felt, be it emotional or physical. He could see her beaming as Sherlock draped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her tightly.

And for once, John felt like he had a proper family.

 


	13. Open Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //Hey! I think I'm beginning to update more frequently again! As usual, comments, kudos and bookmarks make me incredibly happy - tell me what you think of certain characters or the plot or what you want to happen next. Xx

The three fell asleep on John's bed, John curled around Harry, Sherlock curled around John. They slept peacefully through the night.

Mycroft and Greg walked in about an hour after they all fell asleep and as Greg went to move them into separate beds, Mycroft simply shook his head and smiled. "Leave them." He muttered, and Greg nodded, and they left to go home. Together.

And Baker Street was peaceful that night.

\---

Waking up with the smell of the one person he loved most in the world, surrounding him was the best feeling Sherlock had ever experienced. It was a high unlike Cocaine, surpassing Heroin, completely knocking Cannabis out of the water. Every moment with John Watson was euphoric, and he couldn't understand how he'd almost thrown it all away with Jim. He knew John was a heavy sleeper but he felt Harry move around a little, hum softly, then sit up and creep out of bed. He sat up too and smiled at her, she smiled back, and then padded off down the corridor in just her socks. Listening carefully, Sherlock heard a knock, a timid "hello?" and then Doctor Lestrade's low voice responding with something along the lines of "come in, Harriet".

Sherlock turned his attention back to John. Sleeping, peaceful, happy John. The conscious boy planted kisses along the back of John's neck, then stood, pulled a blanket over his boyfriend and crept into his own room, where he found a very pale and tired looking Mycroft, sat on the bed.

"Gregory dragged me in at six in the morning. Bloody stupid git." The man complained, childish tendencies coming through in his voice. And Sherlock sat beside him.

And the boys began to laugh.

"How is he?" Sherlock asked gently, after they'd finished giggling like children.

"Extraordinarily stressed, worried about John, and you, and Harry, and me." Mycroft sighed, rolled his neck and then dead-panned: "He's a mother hen, my boyfriend."

And the brothers were laughing again.

"And what about you, brother dear?"

"I'm worried about you, Lockie. I'm worried about James Moriarty. He's not out of the picture just yet."

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

Almost on cue, the short Irish boy from London Psychiatric Hospital stepped into the doorway. "Is this a bad time to say hi?"

Eyes darting from the boy, to Mycroft, then back the boy, Sherlock helplessly, instinctively gripped his brother's hand for help, support. "No... No. How? How is he here? Why didn't you stop him? Why didn't you send him away? You have the power Myc, why?"

Then Sherlock was a little boy again, trying to get away from his bully.

"And a very warm hello to you, Sherly." Jim stepped forwards, into the room, smirking.

"I'm sorry, Lockie, I didn't know. We're trying our hardest to relocate him..."

"That won't happen any time soon, Mr. Holmes."

Then Mycroft Holmes, British Government, stepped in to replace Myc Holmes, Sherlock's brother, guardian, protector. He stood and rolled his shoulders.

"James Moriarty, sixteen years old, Irish by birth, raised from the age of five by your mother in London. You've taken quite an interest in my little brother, here." Mycroft stated, stepping ever closer to Jim. "Sebastian, put the knife away." He said, without lifting his eyes from Jim's face. A boy, who Sherlock hadn't seen until this point, put a knife away in his pocket and stepped forward to stand beside Jim. He was taller than Jim, stronger. A bodyguard, perhaps? "Mr. Moran, I expected to see you here, although considering you work for me I'm incredibly disappointed that we'll have to... Let you go."

"Sebastian, wait in the car." Jim instructed, and Sebastian did as told. "I'll be leaving now, boys, I'll keep in touch."

"Oh no, you won't." Doctor Lestrade's voice boomed in the doorway; commanding, confident, cocky. "You're here for four nights. You don't just get to run away, sweetiepie." Before Jim could say anything, Greg continued, "Let's show him to his room, eh, Mycroft?" And Mycroft could do little else but nod.

Head pounding, tears beginning to fall from his eyes, hands sweaty and still clenched into fists, Sherlock dropped to the floor and began to sob. Questions plagued his brain, questioning why Jim was back, how Jim was back, and what John would do when he saw Jim.

The boy was a mess in the corner of his room, the lights were off and he was just so tired of everything going wrong. The second he had a good night, something had to come along and ruin it.

"Sherlock?" A voice. Sweet, innocent, Harry.

Sherlock didn't respond. So the girl padded closer and sat beside him on the floor.

"Johnny used to get sad like this." She mused to herself, before smiling weakly. "I know you don't want to say anything, so I'm going to talk about this girl who I like at school, and you can tell me to go away if you want but I dunno, it might help take your mind off whatever's making you sad."

Sherlock forced a smile and nodded: this was exactly what he needed. He didn't need questions or a grand inquisition about why he was crying, he needed the innocence of a kid's childish love to distract him.

"Okay so she's in my year, and she's really pretty and she's got like really really dark brown eyes, like black almost, like completely black-brown eyes and they're all sparkly and pretty in the sun, and she has really long eyelashes and long, straight black hair and she's like... Spanish, I think? Or Italian? Clara..."She mused, and Sherlock began to calm down as the girl's voice danced all over the place with joy and sheer admiration of this girl, Clara. "I think she's Italian." He laughed gently and wiped the tears from his face as the girl continued speaking animatedly. "Anyway, she always helps me with my French homework and she always puts her arm around my shoulders or hugs me whenever she can even though apparently she hates hugs but I dunno... And she doesn't do any after school clubs or anything, but she plays guitar and sings and she comes to my house like every Friday, or I go to hers, and we watch films and cuddle and it's nice, y'know?" Nodding softly, Sherlock stretched his legs out in front of himself and watched the girl gesticulate excitedly as she continued. "Anyway we're going to Scotland in the holidays I think, and maybe France next year. But, yeah, I just checked my texts and I have one from her saying that we need to talk and I just replied 'about what?' and she was like 'us' so I dunno what that means but, yeah, she's very pretty." She stopped suddenly and blushed, then apologised, and they fell into silence. "I just needed to get that off my chest."

And then she heard a gentle chuckle coming from his direction and smiled to herself.

"Thank you, Harry," he whispered softly, "I needed that."

"It's cool, I just don't really have anyone else to talk to. John would do the whole big-brother-ask-a-bazillion-questions thing."

Sherlock began to laugh again. "He's like that, though. It's in his nature. He's a mother hen. He'd make a good doctor or teacher." Then he paused, ran his thumb over the ring on his left hand, and smiled to himself. "It's why I love him."

"Sherlock?" The girl asked softly, resting her head against his arm, not tall enough to quite reach his shoulder. In response to her action, Sherlock lifted his arm, moving her head, and wrapped it around her shoulder, so she should rest her head against his chest more comfortably.

"Yes?"

"Why did you kiss that boy if you love John?" The question was curious, not accusative, and Sherlock was glad to find someone who wanted to know his side of the story. He didn't deserve to be treated fairly though. He didn't deserve Harry's kindness.

A shaky sigh escaped Sherlock's lips and he shook his head slowly, eyes snapping shut tightly. "Because I'm an idiot." He whispered. And Harry simply hugged him that little bit tighter.

"He'll forgive you."

"I want to show you something." The boy spoke suddenly, standing up and pulling Harry up with him. He lead her to the roof and spread his arms wide as the wind and rain battered his face and chest, wet his shirt, soaking his hair, slicking down his curls.

"Sherlock! It's raining!" Harry yelled over the storm, trying to get Sherlock back inside. When he didn't come inside, she ran out and tried to pull him. Her efforts proved useless and soon they were both spinning, holding hands, heads thrown back to look up to the heavens, in the rain.

\---

Downstairs, John was waking up, and he could hear Mycroft's laughter from Doctor Lestrade's room, but not much else other than the ramblings of the other patients and the occasional shout from the boy with turrets. Harry was gone. Sherlock was gone.

He looked everywhere and, when he couldn't find his boyfriend in the Ward, he climbed the stairs up to the roof.

And laughter and the pouring rain and the occasional ambulance wail or police siren was all that could be heard.

And he stepped out and saw his sister and his boyfriend, soaking wet, giggling like five year-olds, shouting at the sky about love and hate and life and death and everything and nothing.

He saw the two people he loved most in the world, together, dancing in the rain and the wind, as though the storm didn't exist.

He saw Sherlock pick up Harry, lifting her into the air as they sang at the top of their lungs at the black clouds above.

So he ran out to join them, and they accepted him with open arms.


End file.
